


God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen

by oldenuf2nb



Series: God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 25 Days of Harry and Draco 2018, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 06:45:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 41,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16805533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb
Summary: Chief Auror Harry Potter is seriously injured while on loan to the Americans, and there's only one specialist in the world who might be able to help. Unfortunately...





	1. Chapter 1

Written for this lovely prompt:

Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, Hermione Granger-Weasley, had given up trying to supervise her children Rose and Hugo while they created the annual mayhem that was decorating the family Christmas tree. She’d taken the afternoon off for this purpose; it was the last year before Rosie went to Hogwarts, and Hermione had the sinking feeling that it would be the last time she got to enjoy the chaos. So she sat in the over-stuffed chair next to the fire, a cup of tea in her hand and her feet up on a mismatched ottoman, laughing while Rose tried to get Hugo to hang the ornaments in a specific order and Hugo ignored her completely, hanging too many on a single branch or a whole line of green ones all together. 

“OH, give me that!” She took a heart shaped ornament covered in red sequins from her brother, hanging it on a branch above his head with a huff. Hermione adored Rose, but she was a complete ‘bossy bum’, as her little brother called her, and Hermione had a sinking feeling that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the bushy-haired tree. She was enjoying herself so thoroughly that she didn’t hear the soft chime that indicated an incoming floo call.

“Mum, the floo,” Rose finally said, pointing. Hermione turned and saw that the flames on the hearth were bright green and her assistant, Mare Blinkendore, was looking out at her. Hermione frowned. She thought she’d been pretty clear when she’d said she wasn’t to be disturbed. Even though she’d only worked for Hermione since October, Mare was extremely efficient and ordinarily could be counted on to follow her instructions to the letter. 

“Mare,” she said after sending her offspring to the kitchen with bribes of Grandma Molly’s gingerbread boy cookies. 

“I apologize for interrupting your afternoon, Undersecretary Granger-Weasley. But you’ve had an emergency international floo, and they refused to give me a message.”

A shiver of unease snaked through Hermione’s stomach and she set her tea aside, reaching for the black pumps she’d kicked off next to her chair. “Where did the floo call originate from?”

Mare’s expression didn’t change but for some reason Hermione could feel her assistant’s irritation. “The Americans.”

Hermione went still in the motion of slipping on her shoe. “Did they identify themselves?”

Mare shook her head. “Statute of Interministry secrecy, I believe. But they’re fairly obvious.” She didn’t roll her eyes, but the desire to went unspoken. “And they did leave floo coordinates so you could return the call.”

“I’ll need to drop my children with their grandmother,” Hermione slipped on her other shoe, “but I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

Mare nodded and the flames shifted smoothly to orange. By the time they did Hermione was on her feet, reaching for the small bowl of floo powder on the mantle. She spoke the moment the flames flared green again.

“The Burrow kitchen.”

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

The Ministry Atrium was bustling with activity, as it was on most weekday afternoons. She’d dropped the children with Molly, and any disappointment they might have felt at having the tree trimming delayed to that night was overcome when Arthur told them he could use their assistance de-gnoming the garden. Hermione was only comfortable leaving them to his supervision because she knew the only gnomes left in the Weasley gardens were so old they literally had no teeth.

She rushed across the Atrium’s marble floor, nodding in greeting to several people but not slowing her trajectory to the lift on the far end; the Minister’s for Magic had always had a private floor for their offices and the wizards who worked directly for them. Kingsley used to grouche about having to ask for permission to go up to the top floor when he’d been Chief Auror. Now that he was Minister, he understood only too well the need to have a space where people couldn’t simply drop in when they had business, or a personal favor to ask.

Hermione held her hand against a black glass plate in the wall to the left of the lift, bouncing on her toes as she waited for the gold doors to slide open. It could be almost anything, when a foreign Ministry tried to get a hold of her. It was well known throughout the wizarding world who she was, and what her function was in the UK. She was Kingsley’s right hand person; everyone knew that. But for some reason hearing that it was the American’s had made her heart race. Mostly because she had no trouble doing the math; it was nearly nine thirty at night there, well past regular business hours. Well into the time when floo calls weren’t casual.

She rushed past Kingsley’s office to her door on the far right at the end of the hall. Mare was still at her desk in the outer office, and she stood when Hermione entered, a piece of paper in her hand. She held it out.

“The coordinates,” she said by way of explanation. Hermione nodded.

“Thank you, Mare. You can head on out now if you like.” 

Mare had a small child in day care, and even though she hadn’t complained even once, Hermione remembered what it was like during the holidays. Maybe she could use the time to finish up Christmas shopping. But Mare hesitated, frowning.

“Are you certain?”

Hermione looked at her quizzically. “It’s fine.”

Mare bit into her lower lip. “Undersecretary, I’m not sure I’m comfortable leaving you to make that call alone. I think I’ll just wait out here until you're done, and then I’ll go. If everything is all right.”

“Whatever you’d prefer,” she said with a slight smile, but in truth she was relieved her assistant was going to stay, that someone was going to be nearby.

She went into her office, carefully closing the door behind her, crossing to the fireplace which already sported merrily burning flames. She pulled a chair around and sat, grateful that the floos on this level were big enough to stand in if necessary, but she didn’t have to sit on the floor. An urn stood on the hearth, and she leaned forward to take a handful of floo powder between her fingers, only then realizing her hand was shaking. She frowned at it, as if it were somehow betraying her, and tossed the powder onto the fire.

She read the coordinates from the parchment in her hand in a firm voice, and waited as the flames grew, images swirling through them in a dizzying rush. Finally they settled, and Hermione could see a handsomely decorated office on the other end. After a moment a woman appeared, a redhead wearing dark blue robes and a pinched expression.

“Undersecretary Weasley?”

“Granger-Weasley,” Hermione corrected, a bit put off by her stiff tone. 

“My apologies.” The woman opened a file in her hand, then closed it. When she met Hermione’s gaze again, Hermione realized something; the woman wasn’t cold, she was _nervous_. Which made Hermione’s heart begin to race again. “Uhm, I’m Agatha Carrilon, special assistant to Minister Miles O’Henry, and he asked me to get in touch with you, and only you, so…”

“Ms. Carrilon, if you could please just… tell me what this is about?” Hermione’s knee began to bounce.

She saw the woman take a deep breath, then opened the file again. “According to his personnel file, Mr. Potter listed you as his emergency contact.”

Hermione caught her breath, the heart that was racing leaping into her throat. 

Ms. Carrilon lifted her eyes again. “I regret to inform you that there’s been… an incident.”

Hermione blinked. It suddenly sounded like wind, rushing through her ears and though the Carrilon woman’s lips were moving, Hermione didn’t hear a word.


	2. Chapter 2

Written for this lovely prompt:

_“Undersecretary Weasley?”_

_“Granger-Weasley,” Hermione corrected, a bit put off by her stiff tone._

_“My apologies.” The woman opened a file in her hand, then closed it. When she met Hermione’s gaze again, Hermione realized something; the woman wasn’t cold, she was _nervous_. Which made Hermione’s heart begin to race again. “Uhm, I’m Agatha Carrilon, special assistant to Minister Miles O’Henry, and he asked me to get in touch with you, and only you, so…”_

_“Ms. Carrilon, if you could please just… tell me what this is about?” Hermione’s knee began to bounce._

_She saw the woman take a deep breath, then opened the file again. “According to his personnel file, Mr. Potter listed you as his emergency contact.”_

_Hermione caught her breath, the heart that was racing leaping into her throat._

_Ms. Carrilon lifted her eyes again. “I regret to inform you that there’s been… an incident.”_

_Hermione blinked. It suddenly sounded like wind, rushing through her ears and though the Carrilon woman’s lips were moving, Hermione didn’t hear a word._

The Atrium of the American Ministry for Magic was a fascinating place, if Hermione had been in any mood to notice. Certainly a decoration for the holiday season, the whole of it was charmed to look like a thickly treed wood in the middle of winter, snow falling gently to the ground. Right in the middle was a giant blue spruce, snow just beginning to cling to the branches and large replicas of those clunky old-fashioned Christmas lights her father loved spaced amidst the branches. It was beautiful, and she appreciated the magic in passing, but honestly couldn’t have cared less. 

The American Minister’s assistant, Ms Carrilon, either couldn’t or wouldn’t give Hermione any more information than that Harry was alive, and currently in the Emergency section of their version of St. Mungo’s, someplace called Haringford’s after their very first Minister for Magic. 

“Baby, please. You have to slow down.” Ron pulled on Hermione’s hand gently. “You know what International Portkey’s do to my balance.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Ron.” Hermione forced herself to slow slightly, even as her neck craned as she searched for the people who were supposed to be waiting for them. Finally, she saw them waiting near the lifts; a middle-aged gentleman in lovely pewter gray robes that for some unaccountable reason reminded her of Draco Malfoy. It certainly wasn’t his bearing or his hair; he wasn’t tall, and his hair was black. At his side he saw Ms. Carrilon, several inches taller than her superior, her hair a brilliant red beacon in the soft lighting.

“Ms. Granger-Weasley,” Minister O’Henry said in a resonant, deep voice, shaking Hermione’s hand. “And this gentleman would be Mr. Weasley, I presume? I recognize you from your picture.”

Ron frowned slightly. “My picture…”

“I’m thought to be something of an expert in International Wizarding history, sir. It’s a true pleasure to meet you both.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Minister,” Hermione interrupted, “but we’re terribly concerned about our friend.”

“Oh, of course you are,” he said, sounding deeply understanding. “We’ll take you over to Haringford’s immediately. I’m sorry we couldn’t allow you to portkey directly there.”

“No, it’s quite all right. St. Mungo’s has a similar statute, I believe.” Which had been set in place in response to the American’s, but they didn’t need to know it. The State side Ministry had put a complete boycott on International Portkey travel into the American Hospital in response to the staggering casualties on the UK side during the war. They’d said it was to keep Death Eaters in disguise from infiltrating, and their doctors had come to help in the aftermath, once Voldemort was confirmed dead, but Hermione had never quite forgiven them. So much so that she’d tried to keep Harry from coming to do the training program to begin with. She supposed she’d been right, in retrospect. Usually she enjoyed being right; not so much at the moment.

“Shall we go?” The Minister said. “I’ll take you, and Ms. Carrilon can bring your husband, if that’s agreeable?”

“Fine, yes.” Hermione held out her hand, and Minister O’Henry took it. She closed her eyes and inhaled when the tug of Apparition pulled her off her feet. She landed gracefully in a small anteroom on the other end; Ron was not so lucky with his equilibrium already shaken by the International Portkey. He landed on his bum on the floor, nearly pulling Ms Carrilon down with him in the process.

“Oh, Mr. Weasley!” She exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

Ron, not unsettled by much of anything, laughed and climbed to his feet, which was a sight to behold with him wearing the horrid magenta Wheezes robes, the gold W emblazoned on the front. Hermione had tried to talk George out of the godawful things, to no avail. She hadn’t even noticed her husband was still wearing them, so upset had she been about Harry. He certainly stood out when they stepped out onto the crowded Emergency floor. 

There was the low buzz of a busy activity and conversation when they entered the waiting room; it died as people realized that their Minister was in their midst. Silence followed them as he approached a double set of doors in front of which a Mediwizard stood, wearing the internationally recognized pale green robes. 

“Minister,” he said in deference, accepting a handshake.

“Healer,” O’Henry replied. “This is Healer Clover. We became well acquainted when I was in Magical Law Enforcement. Best man there is in accidental spell damage. How goes, it Ben?”

The Healer nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Accidental spell damage. Hermione felt her alarm grow, but she hid it under a professional mask. “Healer,” she said. “I’m Undersecretary to the British Minister, Hermione Granger-Weasley. This is my husband, Ronald.”

He nodded in greeting, then waved his wand toward the doors. They opened silently, and he led them through.

The American version of the Emergency floor was very different from St. Mungo’s. Where the British Hospital had an entire open floor, each individual bed enclosed in curtains, here there were a series of doors along the long hallway, numbers above each. 

Medical personal bustled about on silent feet. In fact, the whole place was disconcertingly quiet. Healer Clover paused outside of a door directly across from a circular central desk and turned to them. 

“You should probably have some information about Mr. Potter’s injuries before I take you in to see him.” 

He looked so solemn that Hermione steeled herself with a deep breath. She hadn’t even realized she’d reached for Ron’s hand until she felt it slip into hers.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Written for this lovely prompt:

_The American version of the Emergency floor was very different from St. Mungo’s. Where the British Hospital had an entire open floor, each individual bed enclosed in curtains, here there were a series of doors along the long hallway, numbers above each one._

_Medical personal bustled about on silent feet. In fact, the whole place was disconcertingly quiet. Healer Clover paused outside of a door directly across from a circular central desk and turned to them._

_“You should probably have some information about Mr. Potter’s injuries before I take you in to see him.”_

_He looked so solemn that Hermione steeled herself with a deep breath. She hadn’t even realized she’d reached for Ron’s hand until she felt it slip into hers._

She met Clover’s eyes and the muscles in her face felt strained. She hoped her expression conveyed her concern. “What was done to him, if you please?”

“It was an accident, as I understand it. Mr. Potter was teaching advanced defense against the dark arts for a group of officers, second class. People who can usually be counted on not to make these sorts of mistakes, actually.”

Hermione had finally lost her patience. “What sort of mistake,” she ordered in a firm voice. “The lot of you have done nothing but talk around it since I was first notified of a problem. I want to know what’s been done, by whom, and I want to know right now!” She didn’t stomp her foot, but it was a close thing. Ron squeezed her hand. 

“Easy, Love,” he murmured. She took a deep breath. 

“As I understand it,” Clover said, his tone gone a bit arch, “Mr. Potter had set an exercise for class and he was supervising from the side when a spell went astray and struck him in the lower back.”

“What spell?” Hermione demanded.

For the first time, Clover look momentarily discomfited. “We’re not sure. They had apparently been working on Expelliarmus on one side of the room, and the Patronus Charm on the other. As far as we can make out, the spells crossed somehow and mingled before striking Mr. Potter in the spine. It was an utter accident.”

“So just about everyone has said.” Hermione’s lips pursed. “And yet I haven’t been told the resulting damage.”

The Healer hesitated.

“Feel free to speak, Ben,” O’Henry said, frowning. “We don’t want to give the impression that we’re hiding something. Particularly not with this patient.”

Healer Clover firmed his jaw before crossing his arms over his chest, clearly every bit as irritated as Hermione but perhaps a bit better at hiding it.

“There is significant spinal damage in the region of L4 and L5. We’ve never seen anything quite like what’s happening to the disc between the vertebrae, but we’re doing extensive testing. In terms of his legs…”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “His Legs?” She looked at the American faces around her. “You tell us he has extensive spinal damage that you can’t explain, and now there’s something with his legs?”

“The vertebrae in question involve the root of two of the sciatic nerves. The L4 and L5 nerves control much of the feeling in the legs. With the current condition, he is experiencing a loss of feeling with sporadic pain from his lower back to his toes as the swelling lumbar disc pinches off the nerves. We’re doing everything we can to keep him comfortable, I promise you.”

“Can he…walk?” Hermione said, her voice coming out softer than it had before. 

Clover looked over the top of her head. “Not without significant pain.”

She rubbed her hand over her mouth. “And his prognosis?” 

“We have our very best people on it, Undersecretary. And the trainee whose magical signature is all over the spells feels dreadful.” O’Henry gave her a soulful look. “She’s young and brilliant but at times can be—overly enthusiastic. Do you wish to speak to her?”

Hermione inhaled deeply, letting the air out slowly. “Eventually, yes. Right now, I just want to speak with Harry.”

“Of course,” Healer Clover said. “I just hope you’ll bear in mind that this only took place a couple of hours ago, and he’s probably in as much pain as he will be until we figure out how to treat the originating injury.”

“And you need to understand that we’ve seen him in pain. We’ve seen him happy, sad, grieving. We know all facets of the man, Healer Clover, far better than anyone here could. Now, you need to let us see him.”

“Of course.” He opened the door and stepped aside, clearly still irritated but Hermione didn’t care. This wasn’t some minor training officer they were talking about; this was Harry Potter, defeater of dark lords and her very best friend in the world, dammit, and she meant to take him home in one piece. She lifted her chin and walked through the door, Ron right behind her.

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Harry was floating, trying to keep his thoughts at odds with his body. As long as he did, he didn’t feel as if any moment he’d run screaming. He tried to put the incidents of the afternoon in order, recalling what had happened. In his mind, he was back working with the class of American trainees, and being a bit concerned about one of the second years. She was too over-awed by his presence, and he needed her to relax and concentrate on what she was doing before she hurt someone. He saw the burst of color from her wand, saw the moment her spell interacted with someone else's mid-air. When they hit him, even through the blinding roar of pain, he knew it had been Mary Ellen Garskard who’d cast it. Now as he floated in half-consciousness, through swirling red clouds that pulsed with pain surrounded by white clouds that formed themselves into a massive Christmas tree, he imagined casting his Patronus. Instead of going off to search for help, the messages he sent formed into little golden stag ornaments surrounded by tiny gold balls. They pranced around the tree, then hung themselves from the branches. ven As he fought back the pain, he couldn’t help but admire the swirling shapes of the stag’s slender bodies, over the arch of their fine backs and the tapered shape of their elegant heads and antlers.

The red haze of pain began to pulsate and he rolled to his slide, into the one position where throbbing didn’t shoot down his legs. Very, very carefully, he pulled up into a fetal position and stilled, agony fading for the moment, at least. He took a deep breath.

“Harry.” 

At first he thought he imagined the voice, he’d wanted to hear it so much. Then came another.

“Mate? I hear some trainee fucked you right up, eh? Want me to gift her with one of Gin’s patented Bat Boogie hexes? That might be a new one for the American’s to try to sort.”

Harry laughed; he couldn’t help it. But there were tears, too, slipping down his cheeks. Tears of relief so profound it weakened him. He managed to reach out with his hands, and Hermione stepped into view. 

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, leaning down to gently wipe the tears from his face with her thumbs, then to take his hand and squeeze it. “Whatever did she do to you?”

“She didn’t mean to. She’s young, and impulsive. Sound familiar?”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. 

“I need help,” he finally admitted raggedly. “It’s getting worse. I’m not sure how much more I can bear.”

“We’ll sort it, I swear. Won’t we, Ron.” She looked anxiously toward her husband. “We will.”

“Of course we will.” Ron took Harry’s other hand. “Hang in there, Mate. We haven’t let you down yet, have we?”

Harry forced himself to take slow, even breaths. “Never.” He breathed through the pain. 

Hermione and Ron were there. His muscles eased and he slipped toward sleep. Ron and Hermione were there. With them by his side, anything was possible.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Written for this lovely prompt:  
  
 _“Harry.”_

_At first he thought he imagined the voice, he’d wanted to hear it so much. Then came another._

_“Mate? I hear some trainee fucked you right up, eh? Want me to gift her with one of Gin’s patented Bat Boogie hexes? That might be a new one for the American’s to try to sort.”_

_Harry laughed; he couldn’t help it. But there were tears, too, slipping down his cheeks. Tears of relief so profound it weakened him. He managed to reach out with his hands, and Hermione stepped into view._

_“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, leaning down to gently wipe the tears from his face with her thumbs, then to take his hand and squeeze it. “Whatever did she do to you?”_

_“She didn’t mean to. She’s young, and impulsive. Sound familiar?”_

_She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes._

_“I need help,” he finally admitted raggedly. “It’s getting worse. I’m not sure how much more I can bear.”_

_“We’ll sort it, I swear. Won’t we, Ron.” She looked anxiously toward her husband. “We will.”_

_“Of course we will.” Ron took Harry’s other hand. “Hang in there, Mate. We haven’t let you down yet, have we?”_

_Harry forced himself to take slow, even breaths. “Never.” He breathed through the pain._

_Hermione and Ron were there. His muscles eased and he slipped toward sleep. Ron and Hermione were there. With them by his side, anything was possible._

Hermione stood in front of the window of their hotel suite, staring unseeing out into the cold, gray light of dawn. She’d been unable to sleep next to her peacefully snoring husband; it never failed to amaze her what Ron could sleep through. Squalling babies, screaming siblings, barking crups, none of it bothered him. And he could be truly, genuinely worried about someone, as Hermione knew he was about Harry, and still sleep the minute his head hit the pillow. “How am I helping them if I’m exhausted?” he’d asked her once, and she hadn’t had a reply for the sound reasoning. 

Unlike Ron, if Hermione was worried about someone her sleep was sketchy, and she was very concerned about Harry. He was one of the strongest people she knew. For him to admit that he was near the limits of his endurance frightened her, and that had been hours ago. She checked her watch, and sighed; six hours ago, exactly. Her breath fogged the window and she frowned distractedly, taking a step back. Colored twinkle lights hung from a branch just outside the glass, covered in the thick, heavy snow that had fallen overnight. The view from the third floor window down onto 74th Street was lovely, even with the rush of early morning traffic. The trees were cloaked in white, the sidewalks as yet un-shoveled, the wheels of the steadily moving cars hushed by the six or more inches of snow. Usually New York was one of the noisiest places she’d ever been, but right now it didn’t seem like it. Maybe the glass was thicker than usual…

The American Ministry had gotten them this admittedly very nice wizarding hotel suite; three rooms, including sitting room, bedroom and bath. All done in shades of gold and deep blue, there was even a beautiful real Christmas tree in the corner. Gold balls glittered amongst the branches, blue velvet ribbon cascaded from huge bows at the top and down each side. It was lovely, but all it did was make her long for her own tree covered in haphazardly made children’s ornaments and scraggly construction paper chain. But she wasn’t going anywhere without Harry, at least not until Christmas Eve if necessary. Fortunately Kingsley, and more importantly her children, agreed. There were times when she thought Uncle Harry was as important, if not more so, to her kids than she and Ron were. She knew it wasn’t actually true, but they adored him and Rose had picked up on something in Hermione’s demeanor immediately. 

“What’s wrong with Uncle Harry?” Rose demanded when Hermione floo’d The Burrow.

“He was hit with a spell while he was training some people, love. He’ll be all right.”

Her little eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you; you have your worried voice.”

And here she thought she’d been covering so well.

A whooshing sound came from behind her, and Hermione turned and saw that the flames in the sitting room hearth were bright green and Mare’s head was floating amongst them. Hermione hurried across the room, sitting in a chair facing the fireplace, making sure the white velvet hotel robe was closed over her knees.

“Yes, Mare?”

“Good morning, Undersecretary Granger-Weasley. May I ask how Auror Potter is faring?”

Hermione saw that her assistant looked worried, and quite like she hadn’t slept any better than Hermione had. She sighed, and pushed her hair back. 

“Not terribly well, I’m afraid. When we left hospital last night, he was in terrible pain. They were about to sedate him.”

For a moment, Hermione thought the woman might cry. She sniffed, but her composure didn’t crack. Hermione was grateful she was holding herself together; she’d had a suspicion Mare had a bit of a crush on Harry from the way she lit up whenever he came down to the office, but the last thing she needed was someone to ask her assistant what was upsetting her. There were people inside of the Ministry who wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to sell any story about Harry to the _Prophet_. She didn’t question Mare’s professionalism, but now was not the time for it to be tested, either. Hermione and Ron both felt Harry’s condition had to be kept confidential. Kingsley knew, of course, and Molly and Arthur, and her children even though she doubted Hugo really understood, but that was as far as the information had gone. 

“Minister Shacklebolt delivered your request, and I began the research you need immediately.”

Hermione perked up; that was faster than she anticipated, but Mare was nothing if not efficient. “And what did you discover?”

“There actually is a wizarding clinic specializing in spinal injury in Hertfordshire.”

Hermione leaned forward. She was very familiar with the area, being particularly fond of Chiltern Hills, and Ashridge, a stunning country estate. In fact all of the area was beautiful.

“Where in Hertfordshire?”

Mare looked down, Hermione assumed studying her research. “On a piece of private property not far from Tring. The clinic has only been in existence for six months, but it’s very highly rated by the staff of St. Mungo’s.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “And they have experience with spinal injury created by spell damage?”

Mare nodded. “They specialize in it, actually. It’s a ten bed facility treating injuries from the critical stage through rehabilitation. It has state of the art equipment, three mediwizards on staff and one presiding specialist. It looks like the best option to treat injuries of this type.” She hesitated, and Hermione picked up on the pause instantly.

“What?”

“Well, there is one… small niggle.”

“And that would be?”

Mare glanced up, looking a bit sheepish.

“Mare? What?”

“Mr. Potter has history with the presiding specialist.”

Somehow, Hermione knew what she was going to say before the words ever left her mouth. 

“The Healer in charge is Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione closed her eyes as her heart sank. How in the world would she ever convince Harry to trust him?

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Written for this lovely prompt:

_Mare looked down, Hermione assumed studying her research. “On a piece of private property not far from Tring. The clinic has only been in existence for six months, but it’s very highly rated by the staff of St. Mungo’s.”_

_Hermione pursed her lips. “And they have experience with spinal injury created by spell damage?”_

_Mare nodded. “They specialize in it, actually. It’s a ten bed facility treating injuries from the critical stage through rehabilitation. It has state of the art equipment, three mediwizards on staff and one presiding specialist. It looks like the best option to treat injuries of this type.” She hesitated, and Hermione picked up on the pause instantly._

_“What?”_

_“Well, there is one… small niggle.”_

_“And that would be?”_

_Mare glanced up, looking a bit sheepish._

_“Mare? What?”_

_“Mr. Potter has history with the presiding specialist.”_

_Somehow, Hermione knew what she was going to say before the words ever left her mouth._

_“The Healer in charge is Draco Malfoy.”_

_Hermione closed her eyes as her heart sank. How in the world would she ever convince Harry to trust him?_

“Mrs. Weasley…”

“Granger-Weasley if you value your bollocks, Mate.” Ron leaned back against the Emergency Ward’s wall, arms crossed, ankles crossed casually. He looked enormously amused. 

Healer Ben Clover didn’t look amused. At all. 

“Weasley-Granger,” he snapped out. “Whatever.”

“Oy. That was a bad move,” Ron muttered. Clover ignored him.

“I cannot agree with this move. We’re still not certain exactly what about those two spells created the damage, and moving him while his spine is so unstable could actually be dangerous.”

Hermione stared at him, her arms crossed in an anything but casual posture. “Tell me something Healer,” she began mildly. “How can you be certain moving him could be dangerous, when you don’t know what caused the damage to begin with?” 

“I know that his spine is unstable,” he bit off word by word. “I have a specialist coming, but he cannot be here until the sixteenth.”

“And so – what?” Hermione retorted. “He’s supposed to just lie here in pain for the next two weeks?”

“We’ll keep him comfortable,” he shot back. 

“You’ll keep him unconscious, you mean. So he’s supposed to float through the next eleven days in a cloud of spells and Mandrake root?”

They’d sedated him the night before, but found the pain wasn’t controlled when his consciousness was limited. At that point, they turned to more alarming things. Mandrake. And Hellebore. Both of which had narcotic qualities.

Clover’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve read his chart.”

“And the fact that you have a problem with that is all the argument for the move I need.” She pinned the Healer in place with a glare. “I am his designated emergency contact, and his power of attorney. And if I think moving him to England, to an acknowledged expert on spinal damage, is the right course of action you cannot stop me.”

“Fine.” The word was clipped off. “Then you take responsibility for any permanent injury that may occur.”

“Mate.” Ron clapped the man on the shoulder, sending him staggering forward a step before he could right himself. “She’s been ‘taking responsibility’ for Harry Potter since we were all twelve years old.”

“Ron!’

The voice echoed down the long ER hallway, and Hermione and Ron turned to see George and Ginny approaching, smiles on their faces. He went to them, his arms open to hug each in turn. Hermione followed.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione hugged her sister-in-law, who was one of her very best friends in the world when they had time to see one another. Hermione had the Ministry, and Ginny was a Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. Her hair was cut in a short pixie that suited her gamine features, and her slender, muscular body was sporting tight jeans and a black leather jacket. Hermione thought it had once belonged to Sirius and Harry had given it to Ginny while they were dating, what felt like a hundred years ago. Ginny, being Molly’s daughter, was an old hand with tailoring charms. George was dressed in the same glaring magenta robes Ron had arrived in. Now her husband was wearing worn jeans and a dark blue jumper, a much better look on him. Hermione was wearing her Ministry robes; she found they ordinarily kept arguments with the Americans to a minimum.

“Ron floo’d. He told George you were going to need help moving Harry to Hertfordshire. How is he?”

Hermione tried to keep her face impassive, but she never could hide anything from Ginny. She’d known Hermione was in love with Ron before Hermione had. “That bad, huh? What did he tangle with this time?”

“We’re not altogether sure,” she answered. 

“Are they that incompetent here?” Ginny aimed the comment at the Healer still standing in the hallway, and he huffed in irritation and stomped away. 

“Nice, Gin,” Ron said with a chuckle. “We’d like to get him out of here without them poisoning him.

“Oh, Ronald. Hush.” Hermione shook her head, heading for Harry’s room, Weasley’s siblings following. 

Harry didn’t look any better today, for all that he was unconscious. He was lying on his back, pale to the point of looking gray, and his hands were clenched in the bedding, knuckles white. A film of sweat covered his skin, and his jaw was dark with stubble.

“Merlin’s toenails,” George whispered. “He looks awful.”

“I imagine he feels worse,” Hermione said tightly. “Before we move him, I need to make sure he’s as secured to a floating back board as I can make him. Then we’re taking an International Portkey to Hertfordshire.”

George whistled under his breath. “And we’re supposed to keep him from moving?”

She turned to him. “It’s important, George. So very, very important.”

George studied her for a long moment. “Then we’ll do it.”

Hermione threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, George. So much.”

“Sure.” He patted her on the back awkwardly.

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Getting Harry secured to the board was not difficult. It was a matter of levitating him above his hospital bed, slipping the board beneath him and then strapping him to it.

Ginny stared down at him when they were done, picking up a cloth from the bedside table and taking it to the sink to dampen it. She came back, tenderly wiping it over his face, then down his neck. “He looks terrible,” she whispered. “And he’s never this still.”

“I know,” Hermione said from beside her. “You can see why I have to move him, can’t you?”

“Get him to a specialist tonight rather than wait eleven days? Yes.” Ginny’s tone was emphatic. “Absolutely.”

“Undersecretary Granger-Weasley.”

Hermione turned to find the American Minister standing in the doorway. She went to him.

“Ready to go?”

“The Portkey activates in – “she looked down at her watch, “—six minutes.”

“Healer Clover actually is a very good man,” he said. His small smile was wry. “No one much questions his judgment around here. I believe you challenged him.”

Hermione’s answering smile was tight. “I believe he needs to be challenged.”

Minister O’Henry chuckled. “You’re probably right. I hope you’ll keep us up to date on Mr. Potter’s progress?”

Hermione nodded. “Of course.”

He stared past her at Harry. “I wonder if he realizes how fierce his friends are in their support?”

“He knows,” she said firmly. “And he’s exactly the same with us.”

The Minister shook hands all around and then left, and Hermione directed them to their places around the board. She gripped her side hard. “Remember, don’t let him move,” she said anxiously. She knew how blessed she was when the Weasley’s just nodded in response without reminding her how many times she’d already said that.

It wasn’t easy. International Portkeys were rough by nature. When they slipped from its pull to float to the ground, Hermione could only pray Harry was none the worse for wear.

The building they landed in front of was small, and generously decorated in pine boughs and ornaments for the holiday season. It looked like a small tailor shop, with bolts of material in the windows and a bicycle parked off to one side. It was chilly in Hertfordshire but not the bone numbing cold of New York, and immediately she could feel that they were home. 

She’d disillusioned them all before the Portkey had activated so that any Muggles walking by wouldn’t see them, but the picturesque little lane was empty. She walked up to the hunter green painted door and pressed a bell to the right of it, and felt someone come up beside her. The disillusioned sign above the bell read, “The Spine Institute, HIC D. Malfoy”, and Hermione waited for the inevitable outrage. She looked to her right when it didn’t come.

“I’ll give you this,” Ginny’s disembodied voice said softly. “You may be the craziest bitch I’ve ever known, but this just proves you’d do anything for him.”

Her throat felt thick. “Anything.”

It was a weird sensation to be hugged by someone you couldn’t see, but not necessarily a bad one.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Written for this lovely prompt:  


_She’d disillusioned them all before the Portkey had activated so that any Muggles walking by wouldn’t see them, but the picturesque little lane was empty. She walked up to the hunter green painted door and pressed a bell to the right of it, and felt someone come up at her side. The disillusioned sign above the bell read, “The Spine Institute, HIC D. Malfoy”, and Hermione waited for the inevitable outrage. She looked to her right when it didn’t come._

_“I’ll give you this,” Ginny’s disembodied voice said softly. “You may be the craziest bitch I’ve ever known, but this just proves you’d do anything for him.”_

_Her throat felt thick. “Anything.”_

_It was a weird sensation to be hugged by someone you couldn’t see, but not necessarily a bad one._

“Can I help you?”

The disembodied voice caused Ginny and Hermione to pull apart, and Hermione quickly ended the disillusionment on herself. 

“Yes,” she said, quickly taking a slip of paper from her purse as she looked up and down the empty street. “I was in contact yesterday. I’ve some aqua slacks that I need to have shortened.” She used the exact words that had been sent to her, and after several seconds there was a soft click above her head.

“Enter, please.”

Hermione stepped through into the shop beyond, holding the door open so her invisible friends could levitate Harry through the door. The moment it was closed behind them the spell faded and three red-haired siblings with a floating stretcher between them came into view. They all looked a bit wind tossed, including Harry who looked no better now than he had before. Hermione could only be grateful he didn’t look any worse.

She glanced around, and saw that they were standing in a wide hallway painted a soft, restful blue. The floors were blond oak in wide planks, obviously old but sanded and polished until they gleamed. Watercolor prints of the Hertfordshire country side, including the grand house at Ashridge, hung on the walls. Leading the way, Hermione walked down the hall to where it opened into a large reception area that looked more like an elegant sitting room, with a river rock fireplace and the same light wood paneling. A Christmas tree twinkled in the corner, and there was a loveseat and two large chairs, all upholstered in a pale floral print. On one side of the room was an elegant sideboard set with things for tea and a platter of lovely Christmas biscuits. At the center was a basket of assorted nuts, a squat candle in the middle, small wrapped packages and evergreens tucked in around the edges. More candles burned on the mantle and on a low coffee table, cinnamon and nutmeg scented the air, and all in all it was a lovely room with a kind, homey feel. And utterly unlike someplace Hermione could imagine Draco Malfoy working.

A young woman in a smart gray suit appeared through a side door, her dark hair pulled back at her nape and her blue eyes wide when she spotted Harry on the stretcher. To her credit, she covered her reaction quickly and pressed her ear, revealing a headset. 

“Healer Malfoy, could you come to the entrance area please?”

“Healer who?” George muttered behind her, and Ron shushed him. George ignored him. “It’s probably a good thing he’s unconscious, then, brother of mine.”

They barely heard a deep voice through the small speaker in her ear. “Yes, sir,” she said. She went to the far wall and pulled a wand from her sleeve, waving it with a few complicated motions. A set of double doors appeared. 

“Through this way, please.” They swung open silently.

Beyond the sitting room was a larger room, this one looking far more like the clinic it was. There was a large exam table, sleek modern cabinets along each of two walls, a hallway leading off to the left and a huge set of windows that looked out over a pond, rolling hills of green with woods edging it beyond, and a cluster of charming medieval buildings with heavy beams and thatch roofs. It reflected the weather they’d Portkey’d into, late afternoon sun slanting over the water, and Hermione realized it was an actual set of windows. She was so used to the charmed ones at St. Mungo’s and the Ministry that it surprised her. 

Quick footsteps sounded from down the hall and Hermione turned to see a tall, lean man with short blond hair, wearing a long exam coat, dark trousers and dark tortoise shell glasses. It took her a moment to realize she was watching Draco Malfoy as he came toward them. She hoped she didn’t look as surprised as she felt, but he looked…different. Not physically so much, but it was his attitude. The cringing snark was gone and in its place was a silent confidence and command. It was very attractive. 

“Hello, Granger,” he said briskly, nothing but politeness in his voice. He looked at the siblings, a pale shadow of his smirk touching his full lips. “Weasley’s.”

“Malfoy,” Ron said, the first to recover.

“And it’s Granger-Weasley,” Hermione said, unable to keep the chill out of her voice. Malfoy looked at her.

“That’s right. My apologies.” He turned to Ron. “Could you help me with this?” he asked, gesturing toward Harry.

“Sure.” Ron stepped forward and helped loosen and remove the straps, then leant his wand as the two of them levitated Harry onto the exam table. 

“All right,” Malfoy began, apparently unaware of how gobsmacked the people in the room were by the changes in him. He started to peel back the thin hospital blankets Harry was wrapped in, then hesitated. He looked up at Ginny and George, then over to the young woman still hovering in a corner of the room. “Ah, Rebecca, will you please take George and Ginevra to the sitting room and give them refreshments? And thank you for helping to get him here,” he said to them. “International Portkeys are notoriously rough. That can’t have been easy.”

If George and Ginny looked any more stunned they’d have fainted dead away. They followed Rebecca, glancing back at Malfoy as if he had suddenly sprouted a third arm. 

A small square device lifted from the top of one of the cabinets and floated over to hover behind Malfoy’s right shoulder. 

“I’ve read the reports that came through from Haringford’s a few hours ago, and I have a fairly good grasp of what we’re dealing with. I do want to do my own examination of the area; the wand scans of his spine weren’t as clear as I’d like. The American’s gave him the pain suppressants just before you caught the Portkey?”

Hermione nodded. Ron had sleeved his wand and come around the stand beside her. “Within thirty minutes.”

“And the sedative?” Malfoy pealed the blankets down, revealing more of Harry than Hermione had ever seen. He was wearing black boxer shorts but nothing else, and there was no way to avoid the muscular chest and stomach, broad shoulders and sturdy tawny legs. She looked away, swallowing. Even though he was her best friend, seeing that Malfoy wasn’t the only one who’d changed dramatically revealed more than she wanted to know.

“The same.”

“I’m going to flip him over, now.” He looked at Hermione, eyes inquisitive. Looking away from Harry meant her eyes had caught on the other man. She couldn’t get over how little the tall, handsome Healer resembled the skinny, pointy Malfoy she remembered. He didn’t look like his father, either. Perhaps his mother a bit… “Ms. Granger-Weasley, that is acceptable, isn’t it? You are his medical representative, aren’t you?”

Ron nudged her lightly and Hermione jumped a bit in surprise. “Oh, yes. That’s fine.”

Ron turned his face away, but Hermione would have bet money he was fighting an amused grin.

Hermione couldn’t help but admire Malfoy’s spell work. He pulled the wand from beneath his long sleeve and lifted Harry easily from the exam table. Hermione knew the reason they started with lifting feathers in their first year at Hogwarts; even though it was magic that did the lifting, there had to be physical intention behind it, and if the magic wasn’t very strong, and very confident, a wizard could easily drop something the size of Harry. But Malfoy made it look easy. Hermione couldn’t help but watch, even with Harry mostly naked; he rotated Harry’s long body in the air and lay him down gently.

Malfoy lay his wand on the table next to Harry’s head and starting just below the back of his head, he slid long, dexterous fingers down the indent of his spine, his face thoughtful as he felt each curve and dip. When he reached Harry’s waist, he slipped down the elastic waistband holding up his pants and Hermione looked away again. She didn’t need to know Harry had dimples just there, on either side of his spinal cord. 

He pressed in and Harry came awake with an agonized cry. Lurching over, he grabbed Malfoy’s wand in his hand and curled his fingers into the collar of the white coat. He yanked Malfoy in and jabbed the wandtip just under Malfoy’s chin, pressing hard, before Hermione or Ron could so much as move. They stared at each other, and Hermione saw Malfoy’s long throat move as he swallowed.

“Hello, Potter,” he said. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t kill me.”

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Written for this lovely prompt:

  
_“I’m going to flip him over, now.” He looked at Hermione, eyes inquisitive. Looking away from Harry meant her eyes had caught on the other man. She couldn’t get over how little the tall, handsome Healer resembled the skinny, pointy Malfoy she remembered. He didn’t look like his father, either. Perhaps his mother a bit… “Ms. Granger-Weasley, that is acceptable, isn’t it? You are his medical representative, aren’t you?”_

_Ron nudged her lightly and Hermione jumped a bit in surprise. “Oh, yes. That’s fine.”_

_Ron turned his face away, but Hermione would have bet money he was fighting an amused grin._

_Hermione couldn’t help but admire Malfoy’s spell work. He pulled the wand from beneath his long sleeve and lifted Harry easily from the exam table. Hermione knew the reason they started with lifting feathers in their first year at Hogwarts; even though it was magic that did the lifting, there had to be physical intention behind it, and if the magic wasn’t very strong, and very confident, a wizard could easily drop something the size of Harry. But Malfoy made it look easy. Hermione couldn’t help but watch, even with Harry mostly naked; he rotated Harry’s long body in the air and lay him down gently._

_Malfoy lay his wand on the table next to Harry’s head and starting just below the back of his head, he slid long, dexterous fingers down the indent of his spine, his face thoughtful as he felt each curve and dip. When he reached Harry’s waist, he slipped down the elastic waistband holding up his pants and Hermione looked away again. She didn’t need to know Harry had dimples just there, on either side of his spinal cord._

_Malfoy pressed in and Harry came awake with an agonized cry. Lurching over, he grabbed Malfoy’s wand in his hand and curled his fingers into the collar of the white coat. He yanked Malfoy in and jabbed the wandtip just under his chin, pressing hard, before Hermione or Ron could so much as move. They stared at each other, and Hermione saw Malfoy’s long throat move as he swallowed._

_“Hello, Potter,” he said. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t kill me.”_

“What are you doing to me?” Harry snarled between clenched teeth.

“I know this is going to sound very weird,” Malfoy said carefully, “but I’m trying to assess your injury.”

Harry’s eyes, usually so clear and sharp, looked dull and confused and his forehead creased. The fingers curled in Malfoy’s collar tightened. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“I promise you, Potter,” Malfoy said carefully. “I never lie to a man who has a wand to my throat.”

“Harry, Mate.” Ron walked up from behind Malfoy, moving slowly and carefully, one hand up, palm out. With the other he gestured carefully to Hermione from behind his back. It only took her a moment to understand what he wanted her to do. “Much as it pains me to admit this out loud, he actually is trying to help you.”

“Ron?” Harry’s voice was shaking, and Hermione could see that the pain, in combination with the drugs they’d given him in New York, was battling with his understanding of what was real, and what wasn’t. Hermione moved very carefully, shaking her wand from her sleeve.

“Expelliarmus.”

The wand flew from Harry’s hand, across the room and into hers. He turned his head and looked at her, and the betrayal stamped on his features broke her heart.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” she murmured. “I hope you’ll forgive me. Stupify!”

Harry stared for a moment longer, his mouth falling open just before his eyes rolled back in his head and it fell heavily to the leather cover of the table. She walked to Draco and held the wand she’d caught out to Malfoy, ignoring the trembling in her hand. 

“Let us help you roll him over,” she said. “Whatever you wanted to do, you’d best hurry. I have a strong Stupify, but it will only last a few minutes on Harry. I’d advise getting something more potent on board than hellebore.”

Malfoy was rubbing the red mark the collar of his jacket had left around his pale throat. “Jesus, if what they put in his chart is accurate, he’s the constitution of a bull elephant.”

“It’s more his magic, which can become unstable under stress. It’s been happening since he was a child. I’m just more familiar with the signs than other people. I think his system must have burned off the drugs they used. Madam Pomfrey used to complain about how he needed two to three times the amount of potions she gave anyone else.” Hermione knew she was babbling a bit, but she couldn’t seem to help it. Hexing her best friend wasn’t something she was used to doing.

Malfoy exhaled heavily. “Fine. Here, Weasley lift his legs and I’ll get his shoulders.”

Within seconds they had Harry on his stomach once again. Malfoy turned and picked up the handset of a telephone.

“I need the portable scanner in exam four,” he said briskly. It only seemed moments later that the door opened and a muscular man in a plain blue scrub top entered, a small flat piece of equipment floating gracefully behind him. “I want a lower lumbar, Chester. Primarily L4 and L5.”

Hermione and Ron watched in fascination as Chester placed the scanner, which she realized resembled the old fashioned printer her parents had attached to their desktop computer, just above Harry’s lower back. A screen with a startlingly clear image popped up, and Malfoy came around the table, his eyes glued to the screen, his brow furrowed. 

“Christ, who did this?” he asked, quickly typing something into an attached keyboard. Some of the blobs on the screen enlarged and he leaned in, staring. 

“One of their second year Auror trainees,” Hermione answered. “They call them something else, but I don’t remember what.”

Draco muttered under his breath, shaking his head and typing once again, then staring, rubbing his hand over his jaw. He didn’t say anything for so long that Hermione’s stomach began to tremble. She laid her hands flat on her shuddering stomach. Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore. “Malfoy, what? What is it?”

He shook his head, then turned to look at her, his eyes wide and his face stunned. “What it is, Granger, is an incredible cluster-fuck.”

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdmhpdm_

Once Malfoy had given his succinct diagnosis, he explained that there were more tests necessary before he could say anything definitive, and after Hermione signed forms authorizing treatment, she and Ron Apparated to the Burrow to check on Rose and Hugo.

The kids were delighted to see them, cheering and climbing all over them for several minutes. Rose was concerned about Harry, of course, and it made Hermione feel utterly inadequate that she couldn’t give her very smart daughter a straight answer.

“The Healer is still doing tests, sweetheart. But as soon as I know anything, I’ll tell you.”

“You promise?” Rose looked up at her, brown eyes wide, and Hermione couldn’t have lied to her if she tried.

“Yes, love. I promise.”

They stayed for dinner, but Hermione couldn’t concentrate and she pushed her food around on her plate rather than eat it. Molly fretted over her while Ron shoveled in enough for both of them. Trying to engage her in conversation, Molly showed them an invitation they’d received from Neville and Hannah; on the front was a close up on pine bought festooned with white fairy lights and frost, the words “Baby, it’s cold outsides…” superimposed over the image. Inside it said, ‘come get warm inside with us as we celebrate our engagement! Christmas Eve, beginning at 7 pm and ending when we’re too drunk to stand up!”

“Isn’t that cute?” she asked, smiling down at it. “Of course, I do wish they’d not emphasized the drinking quite so much.”

“Mum, it’s a pub. Of course them emphasized the booze.”

“Still, I wish…”

The floo on the other side of the room chimed and the fire turned bright green, Draco Malfoy’s face appearing, floating in the flame. He looked haggard. 

“Whatever is the Malfoy boy doing in my fireplace?” Molly’s voice was a bit shrill.

“Mum,” Ron scolded, irritated, as Hermione hurried to the hearth, kneeling.

“Malfoy,” she said, worried by his appearance. She wasn’t reassured when he spoke.

“Granger,” he said, and she was so concerned by his expression and the somber sound of his voice that she didn’t even think to correct him. “I think you and Weasley should probably come back. We need to talk.”

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Title: God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen Part Eight  
Author: Oldenuf2nb  
Characters/Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy  
Rating: PG, but ya’all know it takes me a while to heat things up. Lol.  
Written for:   
♦ slythindor100 25 Days of Harry and Draco 2018  
Word count: 1226  
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters here are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.  
Written for this lovely prompt:  


_The floo on the other side of the room chimed and the fire turned bright green, Draco Malfoy’s face appearing, floating in the flame. He looked haggard._

_“Whatever is the Malfoy boy doing in my fireplace?” Molly’s voice was a bit shrill._

_“Mum,” Ron scolded, irritated, as Hermione hurried to the hearth, kneeling._

_“Malfoy,” she said, worried by his appearance. She wasn’t reassured when he spoke._

_“Granger,” he said, and she was so concerned by his expression and the somber sound of his voice that she didn’t even think to correct him. “I think you and Weasley should probably come back. We need to talk.”_

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

When Hermione and Ron arrived back at Malfoy’s clinic, it seemed Rebecca was waiting for them by the door. They didn’t even have to knock; Hermione lifted her hand to do so, and the door opened.

“Mr. and Mrs. Weasley,” she said. “Healer Malfoy is waiting for you in his office, right this way.”

She led them into the hallway they’d traversed earlier, only when they would have turned to head toward the original exam room Rebecca led them in the opposite direction, taking them to a highly polished wooden door. She knocked softly, and Malfoy’s voice came from inside.

“Enter.”

Ron snorted softly, and Hermione sent him a quelling look.

“Oh, come on,” he whispered, grinning. “Enter.” He imitated Malfoy’s serious tone almost exactly, and Hermione shook her head but it lightened her worry some. She reached out and squeezed Ron’s arm.

Rebecca opened the door and they followed her through into the expansive office beyond. It was sleek and very modern, done in usually chilling tones of light blue and off white, but in this case it managed to be both comfortable and accessible. There was even a sofa against one wall, a puffy basket knit beige afghan tossed over the back and a pillow with ‘Cuddle Weather’ inscribed across the front tucked into one corner. It seemed so incongruous in such a professional space that Hermione managed a small smile. 

“It was a gift from Parkinson when we opened,” Malfoy said without looking up, as if he knew what she was thinking. “She knew I might occasionally sleep here, if I’ve a patient in crisis. Why she thought the inscription was acceptable in an office, I can only attribute to the fact she’s a mad cow.” Ron snorted, and Malfoy gestured to the chairs across from him. “Please, have a seat. Thank you, Rebecca. You should head out now.”

The girl nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Hermione and Ron sat and she looked around the elegant space. The only nod to the holiday season was pair of white ceramic deer on top of a wooden cabinet. There was a buck with a full eight point rack standing proudly, and a doe curled elegantly on her side, huge eyes very life like. They were each wearing pine wreaths around their necks. 

Hermione blinked, pulling her attention from the deer. She was tired, but not so tired that the deer were more interesting than the man seated behind the long, sleek desk. Malfoy was in a high-backed chair, scribbling earnestly on the top page of an open file with a pale feathered quill. His hands were long and beautiful, and Hermione remembered noticing that back at Hogwarts. In fact, she’d always found him very attractive, might’ve even crushed on him if he hadn’t been such a complete prat. He was still very attractive, but she’d outgrown the other impulse. She hoped he’d outgrown being a prat, as well.

He finished up what he was writing and slid the quill into an ornate silver stand then looked up, linking his fingers and leaning forward.

“Apologies. I like to make notes while they’re still fresh in my mind. Thank you for coming back.” He looked back and forth between them. “I know you’ve had a long, exhausting day. If I thought this could wait until tomorrow I would have, but there’s a complication.”

Hermione straightened. “What sort of complication.”

“Usually, when there’s spell damage, it’s a one-time event. The spell hits, the damage is done, and we can move on to the treatment phase.”

Hermione’s back went rigid. Ron reached over, laying his hand on her knee, but when she glanced at him she saw he was so pale his freckles stood out like small islands of cinnamon on his cheeks and nose. “It’s a progressive spell?” he asked.

Progressive spells had been the bane of a Healer’s existence during the war. A complicated combination of spells, just as Healers would get a bead on what they were dealing with another wholly different spell would hit. Hermione had seen more than one person die in the final battle because of progressive spells.

Malfoy studied Ron with new respect. “Not many people know about progressive spells.”

“We do,” Ron said flatly. “Is that what this is?”

“After a fashion,” Malfoy answered. “But rather than advancing from one hex to the next, this seems to get stronger as the hours go by. As if there are layers of strength and once we counter one level, the next kicks in. I’ve managed to stall it with a stasis charm, but that will only last so long.” 

Hermione’s mouth went dry. “What do you have to do?”

“There is really only one option,” he said. “Surgery.”

She blanched. “Wait,” she said. “You mean, cut him open and operate on his spine?”

“Magical surgery is much safer than the Muggle version, Granger. It’s very sanitary, infection is almost unheard of…”

“But it’s still -- his _spine_. That must include his spinal cord.”

Malfoy nodded. “Yes. Particularly in this case.”

“No one has really explained to us what’s actually happening with him, other than spell damage,” Ron said. “Could you be a bit more specific, please?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Malfoy said quickly, and he sounded as if he meant it. “I assumed the American’s… well, never mind. Apparently, whatever happened with the combined spells has caused the disc affected to harden and swell. It’s currently shifting the vertebrae out of place, causing it to pinch off the sciatic nerve. That’s one source of the pain he’s experiencing. Ordinarily, sciatic pain can be somewhat relieved by changing position, or lying down, at least in the initial phases of damage. In this case, because the disc is being inflated unnaturally, there’s pain from the shifting of the bones and the pressure on the nerves.” 

“You said you have it under stasis,” Hermione said, her heart pounding. “What happens if the stasis doesn’t hold?”

Malfoy studied her for a long moment. “The disc will rupture. And if that happens…”

Ron grimaced. “I think we get it. Is that why it was so important we get back here tonight?”

Malfoy sighed. “Not entirely. There’s another little complication.”

Hermione arched her brows. She couldn’t imagine anything else. “What’s that?”

Malfoy pursed his lips. “I need you to explain to Potter that I’m not trying to kill him. I’m not sure that I blame him, but he doesn’t believe me.”

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Written for this lovely prompt:

_“No one has really explained to us what’s actually happening with him, other than spell damage,” Ron said. “Could you be a bit more specific, please?”_

_“Oh, I’m sorry,” Malfoy said quickly, and he sounded as if he meant it. “I assumed the American’s… well, never mind. Apparently, whatever happened with the combined spells has caused the disc affected to harden and swell. It’s currently shifting the vertebrae out of place, causing it to pinch off the sciatic nerve. That’s one source of the pain he’s experiencing. Ordinarily, sciatic pain can be somewhat relieved by changing position, or lying down, at least in the initial phases of damage. In this case, because the disc is being inflated unnaturally, there’s pain from the shifting of the bones and the pressure on the nerves.”_

_“You said you have it under stasis,” Hermione said, her heart pounding. “What happens if the stasis doesn’t hold?”_

_Malfoy studied her for a long moment. “The disc will rupture. And if that happens…”_

_Ron grimaced. “I think we get it. Is that why it was so important we get back here tonight?”_

_Malfoy sighed. “Not entirely. There’s another little complication.”_

_Hermione arched her brows. She couldn’t imagine anything else. “What’s that?”_

_Malfoy pursed his lips. “I need you to explain to Potter that I’m not trying to kill him. I’m not sure that I blame him, but he doesn’t believe me.”_

They’d spoken for a few more minutes, Malfoy explaining the surgical process in far more depth than she or Ron would probably ever truly understand. But animated and discussing something he excelled in, with his gray eyes shining almost silver, Hermione didn’t think she’d ever seen a man as beautiful. Except maybe Harry. Gods, she must be really tired, she thought, forcing herself to listen. He gestured a great deal as he spoke and the light caught on the Malfoy signet ring on his right hand, and the polished silver serpents on each side glowed. She recalled seeing it on his hand for the first time during that awful sixth year, after his father had gone to Azakaban. Gods, they had so much history between them. The idea that he was actually going to do something for Harry rather than to him was almost inconceivable. She reassured herself with the thought that he’d worked too hard to risk his reputation and relatively new clinic by intentionally injuring Harry Potter. 

After a few more minutes Malfoy led them from the room and down another corridor, to a door at the far end. 

“After you’ve spoken to him, if you’d press the call button next to his bed I’d appreciate it. Time really is of the essence.”

“Of course.”

He looked at them for a moment, then nodded briskly and walked away. If he weren’t positively thrumming with nervous energy, she’d have thought this didn’t matter to him much one way or the other. But even after not seeing him for ten years, she already knew better than that. He cared, more than he probably wanted to admit. Hermione reached for the doorknob, then hesitated, blinking quickly as tears stung her eyes. The last time she’d been in the same room with Harry, she’d stupefied him. Ron put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. 

“He’ll understand, love,” he whispered, his lips against the side of her head. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll hex his sorry arse.”

She laughed raggedly, then took a deep breath and straightened, reaching out once again. The knob felt cold in her hand and she thought that was a very odd thing for her to notice at such a time. She turned it and pushed, and the door opened silently.

Harry was lying on his side facing the door, his eyes closed. For the first time since they’d seen him in New York, the lines of pain on his face had relaxed and his breathing was slow and easy. Hermione walked to him, laying her hand on the back of his where it rested on the bed next to his head. His eyelashes fluttered and he looked up at her. 

She didn’t know where his glasses had got to, but without them in front of his eyes they looked very large and vivid green. He looked up at Ron and Hermione and slowly, he smiled. The sight of it made her knees weak, and her husband, as he often did, read what was happening and slid a chair under her bum or she might have landed on the floor. 

“Harry,” she whispered. 

“Hey.” He turned his hand over and caught hers, linking their fingers.

Ron reached over and laid his large, raw-boned hand on Harry’s shoulder. “How are you doing, Mate?”

“I feel a bit odd,” he said slowly. “Is Malfoy really a Healer, or am I just high and hallucinating?”

Hermione smiled at him. “No, he really is. A spinal specialist, as it happens.”

Harry sighed, his eyes drifting closed again. “And we’re sure this isn’t an elaborate set up so he can get his wand on me?”

Hermione squeezed his hand. “You know we’d never let that happen.”

“Trust me on this,” Ron said. “She had her assistant check him out, then she checked him out on top of that. If he weren’t for real, she’s hex his bollocks into earrings and hang them from his nose.”

Harry chuckled weakly, and Hermione frowned at Ron over her shoulder. “That was perhaps unnecessarily colorful.”

Ron’s pale brows shot up. “But is it inaccurate?”

Hermione gave him a cross look. “No. Still…”

“Gods, now I’m going to have that image in my head,” Harry groaned. 

Hermione grimaced. “Oh, stop. That’s just… I have no words for what that is.” 

Harry sighed. “So, is there something I have to sign to let him treat me, or – “

“No, Hermione’s already done that.” Ron smiled. “I don’t think they’d let you do it anyway. You’re a wee bit compromised at the mo.”

Harry looked over at her and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry for all of this, love.”

She shook her head quickly, swallowing a lump in her throat. “It’s okay.”

“Want me to rescind that power of attorney?”

She forced a weary smile. “Maybe once the surgery is over. Or if you ever decide to teach another trainee class in America.”

“Yeah, that isn’t happening.”

“Trust me,” Ron said, grinning. “You ever think about it and she and my mum will make you very, very sorry.”

“And she could, too.” 

“No shite. The woman still scares me half to death, and I’ve got to kids of my own. Sooo….” Ron let the word drag out, “you ever going to tell us exactly what happened?”

Harry grimaced. “After everything I’ve put this body through, I let a trainee finally send me into surgery.”

Ron leaned against the wall beside the bed, crossing his arms. “So, not a DE in training or a mad genius, just…

“A second year trainee who couldn’t weigh more than eight stone, ringing wet.”

Ron chuckled. “Yeah. That’s humiliating, is what that is.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “We promise not to alert the media.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “True friends.”

“Seriously, Harry. Think of the money we could have made, selling a tip like that. We could put Rosie and Hugo both through Uni on that bit of intel.”

Harry chuckled, then hissed, wincing. Hermione leaned closer to him.

“Harry, what is it?”

“You okay there, Harry?” Ron asked.

“Just… whatever they gave me. I think it’s wearing off.”

Hermione frowned and exchanged a look with Ron, standing quickly. “We need to get Malfoy.”

Harry shook his head. “Gods, there’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear in the whole of my life.”

“You and me both, Mate.”

“Please.” Harry looked up at them. “I know this sounds ridiculous, but could you both wait with me until Malfoy…”

Ron slid into the chair Hermione had vacated, taking Harry’s hand. “Harry, if I thought I could get away with standing over him during surgery with my wand pointed at his head, I would. And if anything happens, we’ll sic Rosie on him.”

“That would scare the hell out of me,” Harry muttered. “She’s a right fierce munckin.”

“That she is, Mate.” Ron lifted his other hand and pushed Harry’s fringe away from his eyes, and Harry sighed and closed them, leaning into Ron’s hand. Hermione saw his knuckles whiten as he squeezed Ron’s hand. 

She pressed the call button by the bed.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Written for this lovely prompt:

_Harry chuckled, then hissed, wincing. Hermione leaned closer to him._

_“Harry, what is it?”_

_“You okay there, Harry?” Ron asked._

_“Just… whatever they gave me. I think it’s wearing off.”_

_Hermione frowned and exchanged a look with Ron, standing quickly. “We need to get Malfoy.”_

_Harry shook his head. “Gods, there’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear in the whole of my life.”_

_“You and me both, Mate.”_

_“Please.” Harry looked up at them. “I know this sounds ridiculous, but could you both wait with me until Malfoy…”_

_Ron slid into the chair Hermione had vacated, taking Harry’s hand. “Harry, if I thought I could get away with standing over him during surgery with my wand pointed at his head, I would. And if anything happens, we’ll sic Rosie on him.”_

_“That would scare the hell out of me,” Harry muttered. “She’s a right fierce munckin.”_

_“That she is, Mate.” Ron lifted his other hand and pushed Harry’s fringe away from his eyes, and Harry sighed and closed them, leaning into Ron’s hand. Hermione saw his knuckles whiten as he squeezed Ron’s hand._

_She pressed the call button by the bed._

Four hours later, Hermione was dozing on the sofa in Harry’s room, Ron collapsed against her shoulder. He was snoring, but she’d got so used to that over the years she scarcely noticed it any longer. She glanced at her watch, sighing softly. Malfoy had told her he thought the procedure would take just under three hours, and even though she wanted to sleep more than anything, she simply couldn’t relax enough. Her knee was bouncing in spite of her desire to stop it, and she’d given up trying to control it. Clearly, her fidgeting wasn’t disturbing Ron.

There was a sound in the hallway and moments later several members of the small clinic’s staff appeared, Harry levitated between them. He was now wearing a thin hospital type gown, his legs and arms bare, and he was clearly unconscious. His head lolled to one side and his hands and arms hung still and limp. Hermione nudged Ron and stood, and she could hear him come awake behind her with a start and a mumble. As the staff lowered Harry gently to his back on the bed with their wands, Malfoy appeared wearing immaculate pale green scrubs and a surgical hat over his hair. 

Hermione frowned, her hands linked and her fingers white-knuckled. “Should he be on his back like that?” She asked. “I mean, he just had surgery…”

“This position decreases pressure on his lumbar spine,” Malfoy said. “You can’t see it, but he’s wearing a brace. Lying on his stomach is out of the question for a few days, but this is the most comfortable for most patients.”

“Oh.” She stepped back, feeling a bit chastened. Malfoy gave her a reassuring look.

“You’re not the only person to ask that question.” He turned to a woman who appeared to be his head nurse.

“Stats, please,” he said, walking to the bedside and picking up Harry’s limp arm at the wrist, pressing his thumb in just at the joint between arm and hand.

“BP normal, pain levels registering within acceptable levels,” a woman wearing colorful Christmas scrubs answered, her face kind. She wore a surgical hat identical to Malfoy’s. “The anesthesia is wearing off a little more quickly than I’ve seen before.”

“That’s because his magic is stronger than most wizards,” Malfoy replied softly, laying Harry’s arm back on the bed. 

“Even given the fact that it took nearly twice as much to get him completely under?” The woman shook her head as the two orderlies left the room. “That’s a bit frightening.”

“Evelyn, you do know who this is?” Draco arched a brow at her, his expression amused. 

She gave him an incredulous look. “Why yes, Healer. Even I know who Harry Potter is, even without reading his chart.”

“I was beginning to wonder about you.” Draco leaned over Harry, lifting his eyelids gently, using a soft Lumos to light the tip of his wand, then moving it back and forth over his face. “Pupils reactive.”

Evelyn levitated a chart from the foot of the bed and flicked her wand absently. A Quick Quotes quill, this one white and quite unlike Skeeter’s poison apple green, lifted and began scratching notes across the top page. She grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed and flipped it open, pulling it up to Harry’s chin and tucking it in around his shoulders. 

“You needn’t stay tonight,” Malfoy told Evelyn softly. She looked at him with an amused expression.

“I always stay until your patients regain full consciousness and we get them up, Healer.”

Hermione was slightly entertained to see a pink stain spread up Malfoy’s neck. “I know,” he said, clearing his throat. “But tonight I’ve nothing else going, and isn’t it your son’s birthday?”

Evelyn looked as if she was fighting a smile. “It is,” she replied. “And I imagine he’d be delighted to have his cake before midnight. Thank you, sir. Would you like me to come in early tomorrow?”

Malfoy shook his head. “We’re light between now and Christmas. If there’s an emergency, I’ll call you.”

Evelyn nodded and turned to the door before pausing and glancing back. “Not that I don’t believe you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, Healer, but – have you eaten?”

Malfoy’s blush deepened. “I will when I’m hungry, Evie. Thank you.”

She nodded. “Good night.” She acknowledged Hermione with a slight smile and a nod and walked quietly from the room.

“Is he all right?” Hermione asked in a hushed tone, approaching Malfoy but holding back a bit.

“He did very well,” Malfoy answered. “It was a bit more complicated than I’d anticipated, but he’s extremely strong and … in excellent shape.” He cleared his throat, as if admitting what he’d noticed embarrassed him. “That helps with recovery time.”

“It was more complicated, how?” Ron asked, and Hermione looked back at him. He didn’t look completely awake, but he’d apparently been listening.

“Whoever this trainee was, she also had considerable magical potency. Her spells not only damaged his disc, but tied his nerves in knots. We were able to sort it out, but he was under longer than I like.”

“Will it hurt him?” Ron looked at Harry, concern on his face. “Being out longer than usual?”

Malfoy shook his head. “No. All of his vitals look good. And when we checked his reflexes post op the nerve connections to his feet looked completely normal. So I’d say – his surgery was successful.”

Hermione exhaled a breath she hadn’t known she was holding, probably since Mare’s head had appeared in her floo. “Draco, thank you so much.”

He looked startled by her use of his given name. “Of course, Granger. It’s what I do.”

“We’re still grateful, Malfoy,” Ron said, his expression earnest. “Sincerely.”

Malfoy shifted awkwardly, and it was the first time Hermione could recall seeing him so wrong footed. For some reason, it caused warmth for him to fill her chest. “Is it too soon to tell the family he’s going to be okay?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, that should be all right. If you’d like to go home…”

“No,” Hermione said quickly. “At least not until he’s awake.” She looked over to Ron. “We might go send an owl and get some dinner.”

Malfoy nodded. “I’ll uhm… keep an eye on him.”

“Thank you.” Hermione caught Ron’s hand. “Let’s go send that owl. I doubt Rose has slept a wink, and she must be driving your mother spare.”

“Good point.” Ron ran his fingers through his hair and headed toward the door. Hermione held back for a moment.

“Malfoy… Draco. Can we bring you something to eat?”

He blinked. “Uhm, thank you, but – I’m fine.”

Hermione nodded, and she glanced back at Harry before taking Ron’s hand and leading him out through the door. They were crossing the street, headed toward the Owl Post office on the corner, before he spoke again.

“This has been the weirdest fucking day of my life,” he muttered. “And that’s in a lifetime of being Harry Potter’s best mate.”

“Truer words, my spouse,” Hermione said wearily. “Truer words.”

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

The first thing Harry became aware of was that his feet were warm. The second, and more pressing, was that he was lying flat on his back and the pain that had been shooting down his legs for the better part of a day was gone. He shifted cautiously, testing to see what moving did, then exhaled. The pain was gone; he nearly wept in relief. Turning his head, he slowly opened his eyes.

There was a man sprawled in a comfortable looking chair by his bed, sound asleep. His face was in shadow, his head back, but Harry could see he had neat, short pale hair. Harry always went for blonds, and this one was right up his alley; long legs were encased in snug jeans, he was wearing a dark blue jumper that hugged a nicely muscled upper body, and he had beautiful, long-fingered hands that hung relaxed over the arms of the chair. Still a bit fuzzy, Harry tried to recall the name of the man he’d picked up a couple of days earlier in the Muggle bar not far from his hotel. Dale, was it? Dean? Wait, Derek? He couldn’t remember. Something with a ‘d’. Well, that was embarrassing. Whoever he was, he’d been a brilliant shag but not much of a conversationalist, and Harry couldn’t think for the life of him why the bloke was sitting by his bed. 

Harry intentionally refrained from responding to the come hither looks he regularly got from recruits he was training, both male and female. He’d never done that; it was unprofessional, and led to nothing but trouble during classes. He’d seen other instructors do it, and it was always a mess. So this person had to be his Muggle hook up, but why…

The man moved, his head lifting and his hands coming up to rub over his face, then his fingers spearing up through his long fringe. He dropped his hands into his lap and straightened, his silvery gray eyes lifting to Harry’s face. That was the moment Harry recognized the slightly pointed features he’d fantasized about since fourth year, and he stared in a combination of surprise and shock. 

“Malfoy?” His voice came out in a rough croak, softer than he’d thought it would be, his throat raw and his mouth dry.

“Well spotted, Potter,” Malfoy replied, sounding almost as rough as Harry did. 

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Written for this lovely prompt:  


_The first thing Harry became aware of was that his feet were warm. The second, and more pressing thing, was that he was lying flat on his back and the pain that had been shooting down his legs for the better part of a day was gone. He shifted cautiously, testing to see what moving did, then exhaled. The pain was gone; he nearly wept in relief. Turning his head, he slowly opened his eyes._

_There was a man sprawled in a comfortable looking chair by his bed, sound asleep. His face was in shadow, his head back, but Harry could see he had neat, short pale hair. Harry always went for blonds, and this one was right up his alley; long legs were encased in snug jeans, he was wearing a dark blue jumper that hugged a nicely muscled upper body, and he had beautiful, long fingered hands that hung relaxed over the arms of the chair. Still a bit fuzzy, Harry tried to recall the name of the man he’d picked up a couple of days earlier in the Muggle bar not far from his hotel. Dale, was it? Dean? Wait, Derek? He couldn’t remember. Something with a ‘d’. Well, that was embarrassing. Whoever he was, he’d been a brilliant shag but not much of a conversationalist, and Harry couldn’t think for the life of him why the guy was sitting by his bed._

_Harry intentionally refrained from responding to the come hither looks he regularly got from recruits he was training, both male and female. He’d never done that; it was unprofessional, and led to nothing but trouble during classes. He’d seen other instructors do it, and it was always a mess. So this guy had to be his Muggle hook up, but why…_

_The man moved, his head lifting and his hands coming up to rub over his face, then his fingers spearing up through his long fringe. He dropped his hands into his lap and straightened, his silvery gray eyes lifting to Harry’s face. That was the moment Harry recognized the slightly pointed features he’d fantasized about since fourth year, and he stared in a combination of surprise and shock._

_“Malfoy?” His voice came out in a rough croak, softer than he’d thought it would be, his throat raw and his mouth dry._

_“Well spotted, Potter,” Malfoy replied, sounding almost as rough as Harry did._

Unable to quite process Malfoy sitting at his bedside, Harry turned his head and looked toward the window. Through it he could see a charming, snowy path, lined by bare winter trees gleaming with twinkle lights. There was a snow-covered bench, and in the distance a small village aglow with soft street lights. 

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Hertfordshire.” 

Harry frowned, turning his head to look back at the man in the chair. Malfoy shifted, crossing one long leg over the other.

“My clinic in Hertfordshire, to be more precise. You’ve had surgery to repair the damage done to your spine by one of the American trainees you were teaching.”

Harry sighed. “Mary Ellen Garskard. Young, brilliant, and reckless.”

Malfoy smirked. “Sounds like someone else I knew in my youth.”

“You’re the same age I am, Malfoy.” Harry frowned at him, confused. “Did you just call me brilliant?”

“I believe the sentence ended with reckless, which was the more prominent characteristic. Leave it to you to miss the lead.”

Harry couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so dazed or out of step. He shook his head slightly. “Did you say I was in _your_ clinic?”

“I did. While you’ve been rising through the ranks at the DMLE, I’ve been studying medicine in Belgium.”

“Medicine.” Harry tried to keep up with the conversation with some difficulty. “Why?”

“Why?” Malfoy looked incredulous. “Why not?”

“You just never seemed…” Harry’s voice trailed off. He was still feeling utterly off his game, and he blinked slowly. 

“What?” Malfoy said sharply. “Smart enough? Dedicated enough?”

“No. I just never thought you cared about people, particularly.” Malfoy glared at him. “That didn’t come out right.” Harry reached up and ran his hand through his hair, his fingers catching in the curls and tangles. “Malfoy…”

Malfoy stood smoothly, the irritation on his face abruptly covered with a smooth, professional mask. “This isn’t the time to have a conversation. You’re still recovering from sedation. I’ll come back in a while to check your vitals, and we’ll see if we can get you on your feet. In the mean-time, you should rest. Healing requires calm, and my presence appears to cause precisely the opposite reaction. That having been said…I’m going to get some other work done. Someone else will be along directly.” 

With spine-stiffened dignity he turned and left the room, and Harry stared after him, feeling as if he’d somehow just made a terrible mistake without understanding what it might have been.

__

_hpdmnhpdmhpdm_

Hermione and Ron knocked on the unobtrusive door to Malfoy’s clinic, Hermione hiding her amusement with difficulty. They’d gone to a charming little pub on the other side of the Owl Post Office, and when they’d finished their meal Ron refused to leave without ordering a sandwich to take back to Malfoy.

“Turkey’s healthy, right?” Hermione nodded, covering her smile by leaning on her hand. Ron turned back to the waitress who stood patiently beside him. “We’ll take a turkey on whole wheat, and an order of baked chips, not fried.” When the girl walked away, Ron turned back and caught Hermione’s grin. “He may have saved our best friend’s life. The least we can do is take him a sandwich.”

A young man in a set of pale blue scrubs, wearing a discrete name badge that said ‘Scott’, opened the door, greeting them with a professional nod. 

“Your friend is awake,” he told them.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Hermione hurried toward the hallway, pausing when she didn’t feel Ron on her heels. He’d stopped to hand the slightly grease stained white bag he carried to Scott. 

“Could you give this to Malfoy, please? It’s just turkey on whole wheat, but a man’s got to eat, yeah?”

Scott looked down at the bag, professional expression holding but amusement in his eyes. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to get it.”

Ron patted him on the shoulder. “There’s a good man.” He turned back to Hermione, gesturing to the hallway. “Come on, love.” 

She turned and led the way. 

When they entered Harry’s room, there was a young woman reading in the chair by the door. She looked up at them with a soft smile.

“He’ll be glad to see you,” she said before leaving the room. 

Harry was still lying on his back with his eyes closed. Hermione went to him and stopped at his bedside. 

“Harry?” His long black lashes fluttered and he looked up at her. He lifted his hand from the bed and she grasped it between both of hers.

“I’m so happy you’re awake,” she said, slipping into the bedside chair. “How are you feeling?”

“Gods, am I glad to see you,” he breathed. “I feel like I’m having one long hallucination. Hermione, I think I’ve managed to insult Draco Malfoy, and I need you to explain to me – why I care.”

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

Written for this lovely prompt:

  
_When they entered Harry’s room, there was a young woman reading in the chair by the door. She looked up at them with a soft smile._

_“He’ll be glad to see you.” She stood, giving them a nod before leaving the room._

_Harry was still lying on his back with his eyes were closed. Hermione went to him and stopped at his bedside._

_“Harry?” His long black lashes fluttered and he looked up at her, then he lifted his hand from the bed and she grasped it between both of hers._

_“I’m so happy you’re awake,” she said, slipping into the bedside chair. “How are you feeling?”_

_“Gods, am I glad to see you,” he breathed. “I feel like I’m having one long hallucination. Hermione, I think I’ve managed to insult Draco Malfoy, and I need you to explain to me – why I care.”_

She frowned at him. “Why, what did you do?”

He let his head flop back on his pillow. “I’m not even sure. I think I implied he didn’t care enough about people to be a Healer.”

“Implied, how?”

Harry sighed. “By saying he didn’t care enough about people to be a Healer.”

Ron snorted even as Hermione looked completely scandalized. “Harry! He’s a specialist in spinal spell damage. If you can walk after today, you have him to thank for it.”

“Just what I always wanted,” Harry groaned. “To be indebted to Malfoy.”

“Well, I suppose we could have left you in America under a stasis until they could get a specialist to come check on you,” she snapped, obviously irritated at him.

“Hermione, love,” Ron said softly. “Cut the bloke a break. He was hit with a wonky, fucked up spell, drugged to within an inch of his life, then operated on. If he wasn’t trying to think how not to insult Malfoy, I think it’s understandable.”

She exhaled loudly. “Yes, I suppose. But Harry,” she pinned him with a look not unlike something McGonagall had at one time, down her nose. It was impressive. “Please do try not to be argumentative with him. He’s gone out of his way for you in the past few days; he didn’t have to accept you as a patient.”

Harry exchanged a look with Ron, and Ron rolled his eyes behind his wife’s back. Harry managed, just, not to laugh. 

“Be fair, love,” Ron said. “It’s not like they don’t have history. Besides, if Malfoy ended up insulted, he probably started it.”

“He’s been nothing but professional every time we’ve spoken to him,” Hermione countered, then pinned her husband with a wry look. “You were impressed enough with him, you brought him dinner.”

Harry looked up at Ron with a faintly amused expression as his friend turned bright red to the tips of his ears.

“I heard his assistant ask him if he’d eaten, and he told her no.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh just shut it, the both of you.”

Hermione turned her face to hide her amused expression. Harry didn’t bother; he just smiled up at Ron unrepentantly. 

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Harry was wakened several times during the night to have his pulse and blood pressure taken, or to have pain potions administered although to his surprise, after the excruciating twelve hours previous, he really wasn’t in much pain. It was just barely light outside when a young woman wearing a neat suit came into his room. He was still awake after having his vitals taken, and the new arrival gave him a professional smile.

“Good Morning, Mr Potter. You’re very popular.” She held out a small stack of note papers and envelopes. 

“What’s this?” he asked. 

“Well, there are a couple of cards, delivered first thing by someone from the Owl Post Office up the lane. The rest are phone messages left with our receptions office over-night.” She held them out to Harry. “Can I lift the head of the bed for you?”

“Uhm, sure.” Harry resigned himself to not going back to sleep, and he took the stack of correspondence from the girl’s outstretched hand. “I’m sorry, your name is…”

“Rebecca,” she provided with a flirtatious smile. If she thought that was getting her anywhere, Harry thought wryly, she wasn’t a regular reader of the _Prohpet_.

“Yes, well thank you, Rebecca.”

She gave him a bright smile and left the room, and Harry shook his head as he sifted through the stack of messages. There was one from Dawlish, and one from Kingsley. There was another from his assistant, _(I told you to remember to duck,)_ and another from the American Minister, _(Mr Potter, please accept our apologies for the incident that occurred while you were teaching. I hope it doesn’t sour you on our excellent American trainees, and that you’ll be willing to return in the future,)_. “Not bloody likely, Mate,” he murmured. There were all together twenty seven messages from people at the ministry, and Harry smiled faintly as he set the messages on the rolling table next to his bed. There were several envelopes, and he picked up the bright red one. He opened it gingerly when he saw the Diagon Alley return address.

When he saw the card inside, he gave a startled moan. “For fuck’s sake, George,” he said, looking down at the picture of the extremely fit young man wearing what he supposed was a Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer thong. And if the deer’s nose was filled as well as it appeared to be, even shown without a head the model was very fit, indeed. Inside the card in George’s slanted, blocky handwriting was, “Merry Christmas, you big homo! I’ve got one of these on hold for you, just not sure you’ll fill it out quite like this bloke does. Get well soon! George.”

Harry shook his head. “You bloody lunatic,” he muttered, tossing the pile of post next to his knees.

He wasn’t even aware he’d dozed off when a chipper woman who introduced herself as Evelyn woke him at nine for a repeat of all the tests, and had him roll to his side to sit up. She directed him on how to swing his legs over the edge of the bed without putting any strain on his lower back. He spread his hand on his lower stomach and felt the stiff brace beneath the thin hospital gown.

“Feeling steady?” she asked, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes intent on his face.

Harry waited for a slight wave of dizziness to pass, then took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Dizzy?”

“It’s fading.” He looked up at her with a faint smile. 

“We’re going to get you up in a few minutes,” she said. “We’re just waiting for – “ Harry heard brisk footsteps in the hall, then nearly groaned aloud when the owner of the quick gait entered his room. Of course, It would be him.

“Good morning, Potter,” Malfoy said brightly, pausing by Harry’s bed. He looked, well, there was no other word for it. He looked amazing, sun coming in through the window and lighting up his white blond hair. He no longer smoothed it back from his face the way he had while they were in school, but wore it shorter and looser, soft on his forehead and short above his ears. His gray eyes studied Harry calmly. “Feel up to going for a walk through the halls this morning?”

Harry wasn’t sure he did, but he’d die before he admitted it. “Yeah, sure.”

“Excellent.” Malfoy reached over to move Harry’s mail, going stiff when he picked it up. Harry knew what he was looking at and his heart sank like a stone. Malfoy looked back up at him, his mouth working as if he was fighting a smile. “Charming.” He held up George’s card. “Anyone I know?”

Embarrassed beyond endurance, Harry reverted to past behavior. “That’s private, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s eyes frosted over. “Then perhaps you should put it someplace where everyone and their brother can’t see it.”

They glared at one another.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Written for this lovely prompt:

_“We’re going to get you up in a few minutes,” she said. “We’re just waiting for – “ Harry heard brisk footsteps in the hall, then nearly groaned aloud when the owner of the quick gait entered his room. Of course, It would be him._

_“Good morning, Potter,” Malfoy said brightly, pausing by Harry’s bed. He looked, well, there was no other word for it. He looked amazing, sun coming in through the window and lighting up his white blond hair. He no longer smoothed it back from his face the way he had while they were in school, but wore it shorter and looser, soft on his forehead and short above his ears. His gray eyes studied Harry calmly. “Feel up to going for a walk through the halls this morning?”_

_Harry wasn’t sure he did, but he’d die before he admitted it. “Yeah, sure.”_

_“Excellent.” Malfoy reached over to move Harry’s mail, going stiff when he picked it up. Harry knew what he was looking at and his heart sank like a stone. Malfoy looked back up at him, his mouth working as if he was fighting a smile. “Charming.” He held up George’s card. “Anyone I know?”_

_Embarrassed beyond endurance, Harry reverted to past behavior. “That’s private, Malfoy.”_

_Malfoy’s eyes frosted over. “Then perhaps you should put it someplace where everyone and their brother can’t see it.”_

_They glared at one another._

Suddenly Harry could hear Hermione’s voice echoing in his head. _“Harry! He’s a specialist in spinal spell damage. If you can walk after today, you have him to thank for it.”_ And _“Please do try not to be argumentative with him. He’s gone out of his way for you in the past few days; he didn’t have to accept you as a patient.”_

Gods, he was nearly thirty. If he couldn’t be the grown up in the room now, then when? His shoulders had tensed so much they were nearly hugging his ears, and he forced them to relax. 

“You’re right, Malfoy,” he said, letting his ire go with a sigh. “I should have put it away. That would be easier than trying to convince George Weasley not to send things like that through the post to begin with.”

He saw surprise flash through Malfoy’s eyes, then one of his eyebrows arched. “I daresay.” He straightened, crossing his arms over his chest and bracing his legs. “How are his vitals this morning, Evelyn?”

“Excellent, Healer Malfoy,” the woman replied, smiling at Harry. 

Harry felt a renewed surge of irritation at Malfoy’s speaking about him as if he wasn’t sitting right there, but he forced himself to stay silent. It wasn’t easy.

“Then I believe we can get him up.” 

The woman gave Harry a reassuring look. “You ready?”

Harry nodded, startled when she stepped to one side of him and Malfoy stepped to the other. They each curled a hand around one of his elbows and caught his hands with the other, and Harry was almost painfully aware of the touch of Malfoy’s skin on his. 

“Make sure your legs are evenly spaced and your feet centered under you,” Malfoy said softly. “Now, up you come.”

They lifted together and it took almost none of Harry’s effort to have him seated one moment and standing the next. They held him secure between them, and even though there was a moment’s unsteadiness, he never felt in danger of falling. 

“Alright there, Potter?” Malfoy asked, his voice gentle. Harry took a deep breath, then nodded. “Any pain?”

Harry took a mental assessment. He felt a little tightness in his lower back, but that was all.

“No, none.”

“Excellent.” 

Harry glanced to the side, and the fleeting glimpse he caught of Malfoy’s pleased smile was enough to make his breath catch. 

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Harry did one circuit of the hallway between Malfoy and Evelyn’s steady grip before he even thought to be grateful for whoever had charmed the thin, backless hospital gown into a warm pair of flannel pyjamas and a robe. He was also humbled by the fact that the one, admittedly short walk caused him to collapse back into the hospital bed at the end, as if it was more demanding than his usual five mile run in the morning.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Potter,” Malfoy said, pulling the bedding up and settling it over Harry’s chest. “Your body has been through shock; it’ll take a bit before it feels normal again.” It was humbling that he fell asleep while Malfoy was still standing over him. 

That afternoon his resilience was a bit better. He made two circuits of the halls while steadied between Evelyn and a young man name Bastion, and caught himself before he blurted out his curiosity about where Malfoy was. Why should he care, he wondered? But he did. And he still fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow when he was back in his bed. It was maddening to be so bloody weak after one misplaced spell. It was also maddening to find himself a bit fixated on his Healer.

Hermione and Ron came back that evening, bringing several packages with them. There was another pair of pyjamas from Molly; thank the Gods she hadn’t knitted them. There were slippers from Ginny, and a basket of goodies from Honeydukes. There was also a brightly wrapped package from Wheezes, and Harry looked up at Ron, brows arched.

“Is this from you, or your brother?”

Ron had commandeered a second chair from somewhere, and he sat back, rocking it onto the back legs. Hermione shot him a look, which he ignored. 

“It’s from George. I don’t even know what’s in it.”

“Then I’m not sure I’m comfortable opening it.” Harry was only half teasing.

“I’ve already told him he’s not to send anything else like that card,” Hermione said primly. Ron chuckled.

“He did think that was hilarious, though.”

Harry grimaced. “I’m sure he did.” He held up the light box. “Do you think this is safe?” 

“I made him promise.” Hermione smiled slightly. “And I think he’s more afraid of me than he is of you, Harry.”

“As he should be.” Ron gave her a lopsided smile. “Merlin knows you scare me, love.”

Hermione looked very pleased with herself as Harry tore the paper off of a small box, then gingerly lifted the lid. When he saw what was nestled on white tissue paper inside, he chuckled. 

“I think he must’ve meant this for himself, not me.”

He held up a red velvet stocking with a white fur cuff, the words ‘Santa, I can explain’ embroidered on the front in gold thread. Hermione and Ron both laughed.

“Oh, I don’t know, Mate,” Ron said. “I can think of times when that would have been pretty accurate.”

“Yeah, I imagine.” Harry looked at the stocking fondly.

“Christmas come early, Potter?”

Harry hadn’t seen Malfoy since that morning, and he looked up now to find the man leaning against the door jamb wearing his pale green scrub top over worn Levi’s. 

Where his first reaction to Malfoy had always been irritation, Harry was startled to find it was no longer the case. Seeing him standing there, his long body relaxed and his pale hair slightly mussed, he felt nothing but a quick, warm thread of attraction.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

Written for this lovely prompt:

_Hermione looked very pleased with herself as Harry tore the paper off of a small box, then gingerly lifted the lid. When he saw what was nestled on white tissue paper inside, he chuckled._

_“I think he must’ve meant this for himself, not me.”_

_He held up a red velvet stocking with a white fur cuff, the words ‘Santa, I can explain’ embroidered on the front in gold thread. Hermione and Ron both laughed._

_“Oh, I don’t know, Mate,” Ron said. “I can think of times when that would have been pretty accurate.”_

_“Yeah, I imagine.” Harry looked at the stocking fondly._

_“Christmas come early, Potter?”_

_Harry hadn’t seen Malfoy since that morning, and he looked up now to find the man leaning against the door jam wearing his pale green scrub top paired with a pair of worn Levi’s._

_Where his first reaction to Malfoy had always been irritation, Harry was startled to find it was no longer the case. Seeing him standing there, his long body relaxed and his pale hair slightly mussed, he felt nothing but a quick, warm thread of attraction._

Hermione turned to see Draco standing in the doorway, his eyes filled with gentle amusement as he took in George’s gift to Harry. That was surprising enough. But far more startling was when she turned back to her best friend and saw the look in Harry’s eyes as he met gazes with his old nemesis. Harry’s cheeks were pink and his eyes were very wide, and she could almost feel the electricity arcing between them. Even Malfoy seemed somewhat taken aback, and Hermione stood quickly, grabbing her husband’s sweater near the shoulder and pulling him from his chair.

“What?” he said in surprise.

“We’re going for a quick walk,” she said, tugging him toward the door.

“And this needs to happen right this second?” he looked disgruntled as he stood.

“Harry and his Healer have… uhm… the right to a private conversation. You know, Healer stuff.” Hermione seemed discomfited by her uncharacteristic lack of eloquence, but no one else in the room seemed to notice. She looked between the other two Harry and Malfoy, then gave her husband a pointed look and a shove. 

“Well, all you had to do was say so, you lunatic,” Ron mumbled. 

She ushered him forcefully from the room.

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdmhpdm_

Malfoy looked after them, then turned back to Harry with a wry expression.

“I know she’s brilliant, but I think she may be bit insane, as well.”

Harry felt a flare of the old irritation at Malfoy’s aspersion of his best friend’s character, even though secretly he might agree with him, a little. It didn’t do for Malfoy to say it. 

“She’s brilliant, full stop,” he said shortly. Malfoy arched a brow. 

“My mistake.” He came into the room, pausing by the bed, crossing his arms over his chest. Harry thought he did it when he was feeling defensive, but it didn’t hurt that it made his biceps bulge slightly with long, smooth muscles that Harry could just see beneath the short sleeves of his scrubs. He tried to force himself not to stare, with limited success. “So, how is your back feeling?”

Harry brightened. Here was something he could actually talk about. “Almost completely back to normal,” he answered. “A bit tight, maybe. But other than that, improving hourly.”

“Not surprising its still feeling not quite right. It was something of a knotted mess in there. This trainee, whoever she was, has havoc-creating strong magic. Much like you did at twelve. The Americans should probably put a warning label on her.”

Harry smiled in spite of himself. “She’s also brilliant. She was just very nervous…” He let his voice trail off, unable to elaborate further without sounding like an ego maniac to his own ears. Malfoy didn’t need him to continue, apparently. He smirked.

“Found herself over-awed by the great man’s company?” He offered sardonically. “Unable to think clearly because of being faced with casting while in the presence of the great and powerful Harry Potter?”

Harry felt himself stiffen. “She’s young, and was nervous because of her trainer.”

“Oh, well, of course. And you being ‘Harry Potter’ had nothing to do with it? You do love to toss that superiority around, don’t you, Potter?”

“No, I don’t.” Harry narrowed his eyes. “And I didn’t toss anything around, you… tosser.” Harry knew it was weak, but it didn’t help his irritation when Malfoy laughed. “Why is it, Malfoy, that the fact I’m Harry Potter has always put your back up? You’ve done this since we were first years at Hogwarts.”

Harry could remember it vividly. In fact, almost every single memory of Hogwarts Harry had, Malfoy was hovering around the edges. Insults tossed across the great hall, hexes thrown during Snape’s dueling club. He’d been everywhere, always. It wasn’t until sixth year, when he’d been wan and lost and nearly fading away before their eyes that Harry knew he cared about him. Then he nearly killed him in a loo, and – he forced that memory away. “I mean, it’s not like I can help being Harry Potter any more than you can help being Draco Malfoy. Right?”

Malfoy stiffened and opened his mouth to respond, then made a visible effort to close it again. 

Harry sighed. “When can I get out of here, Malfoy?”

New annoyance flashed in the silvery gray eyes. “When I say so. I am the Healer, here.”

Harry’s exasperation grew. “Now who’s enjoying tossing their superiority around?” he snarled, and they stared at each other, once again at an impasse. Finally, Malfoy dropped his arms and took a step back. 

“I will do twice daily assessments of your progress,” he said finally, “and trust me, I’ll make sure you can leave our company just as soon as it’s feasible.” 

“Works for me.”

They shared another glare, then Malfoy turned and left his room.

Harry collapsed back into his pillows. Part of him was profoundly disappointed that Malfoy continued, in his estimation, to act like an ass. And another part of him was relieved. Finding the man physically attractive was one thing. Finding him desirable beyond that was just too much of what Ron would call a ‘brain fuck’. 

Clearly, he just needed to get out of here and go home. Then this weird, off putting craving for someone long, lean and blond would go away. Well -- long, lean, blond and named Malfoy, anyway. 

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

Written for this lovely prompt:

_“Oh, well, of course. And you being ‘Harry Potter’ had nothing to do with it? You do love to toss that superiority around, don’t you, Potter?”_

_“No, I don’t.” Harry narrowed his eyes. “Why is it, Malfoy, that the fact I’m Harry Potter has always put your back up? You’ve done this since we were first years at Hogwarts. I mean, it’s not like I can help being Harry Potter any more than you can help being Draco Malfoy.”_

_Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, then made a visible effort to close it again._

_Harry sighed. “When can I get out of here, Malfoy?”_

_New annoyance flashed in the silvery gray eyes. “When I say so. I am the Healer, here.”_

_Harry’s exasperation grew. “Now who’s enjoying tossing their superiority around?” he snarled, and they stared at each other, once again at an impasse. Finally, Malfoy dropped his arms and took a step back._

_“I will do twice daily assessments of your progress,” he said tightly, “and trust me, I’ll make sure you can leave our company just as soon as it’s feasible.”_

_“Works for me.”_

_They shared another glare, then Malfoy turned and left his room._

_Harry collapsed back into his pillows. Part of him was profoundly disappointed that Malfoy continued, in his estimation, to act like an ass. And another part of him was relieved. Finding the man physically attractive was one thing. Finding him desirable beyond that was just too much of what Ron would call a ‘brain fuck’._

_Clearly, he just needed to get out of here and go home. Then this weird, off putting craving for someone long, lean and blond would go away. Well -- long, lean, blond and named Malfoy, anyway._

“Are you asking my opinion?”

Harry had got permission to walk through the village the next afternoon, as long as he wore his brace, used a walker (which was more lowering than he cared to admit) and didn’t go alone. Hermione had to return to work that day, so Ron was pacing himself at his side. He’d brought Harry warm winter clothes, enjoyed taking the piss when the staff made it abundantly clear the walker wasn’t optional, and they now walked the surprisingly quiet streets of the village. Slowly. The pace made the back of Harry’s neck crawl uncomfortably. 

“Yes, I’m asking your opinion, you wanker,” Harry said, irritated. 

“And you won’t remove my head when I tell you the truth?”

“No promises.”

“Then fuck off.”

Harry groaned. “Come on, Ron. You know both of us. Will you tell me what the hell is going on here? Because I’m at a loss.”

Ron shook his head. “That could be why you have so much trouble keeping a relationship, Harry.”

“What?” Harry paused, frowning. Ron stopped and turned to him.

“For one of the bravest people I’ve ever known,” he said, tipping his Weasley ginger head to the side, “you, Harry Potter, are so afraid of relationships that you sabotage perfectly decent ones on a regular basis.”

Harry stared at him, his mouth open. “Where the hell are you getting that from?”

“My wife. But she isn’t wrong. If you’ll recall, she’s the smartest witch of the age.” Ron grinned sheepishly. “Try living with that.”

Harry shook his head, holding up one hand. “Could we stay with one subject at a time? I know _I’m_ not the smartest anything of the age, but I’m having trouble keeping up, here.”

“Oy, Harry, Mate. Here is the deal. And I’ll admit, Hermione had to point it out to me, but I also came to understand part of it on my own. Much as we’d like to say time stopped when you killed Voldemort and the world was ours for the taking, and that a Death Eater was a Death Eater and no one ever changed, you and I both know that’s not true. Yeah?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, you’ve changed since then. You thought you were in love with my sister.” One of Ron’s brows twitched. 

Harry grimaced. “To be fair, who I wanted to shag hadn’t been on my top ten list of things to worry about. And I did love Gin; I still do.”

“Loved her, yes. Wanted her? Not so much, as it turns out. And you’ve always wanted Malfoy.”

Harry gave him an outraged look, then had to pick up his pace when Ron started walking again.

“Hey, you can’t say that then walk away.”

Ron laughed. “I think I just did.”

“Slow down, you git.” Harry snarled, unable to catch up. Ron turned to face him, walking backwards.

“What?”

“I did not always want Malfoy.”

Ron gave him a level look. “Harry Potter, of the six men you’ve ‘kept company’ with in the last few years, as my Mum would so genteelly put it, every last one of them was thin, pointy, and _blond_.”

“So, I like blonds,” Harry said defensively. “So what?”

Ron shook his head. “My friend, even you aren’t that thick. The first blond you were fixated on was Malfoy.”

“That is not true!” Harry said, outraged.

“Harry, what do you think sixth year was?”

The wheel on the blasted walker got stuck in a chunk of ugly brown snow that had been shoveled into the middle of the sidewalk and Harry yanked at it, then hissed as the tightness in his back evolved into pain. Ron reached over and grabbed the walker, tugging it free and Harry leaned back against a shop front. He let his head drop back and closed his eyes. 

Ron leaned against the window beside him. “Do not do anything else to set your recovery back, please? Or I’ll put you in a full body bind and levitate your ass back to bed, and tell on you to that Healer you’ve gone soft in the head over.”

Harry sighed. “Ron – “

“Harry, you’re my best Mate and I love you, but if you think I’m just going to stand back and let you keep lying to yourself, you’re wrong.” He turned his head and stared at Harry’s profile. “Hermione won’t either, by the way. She’s more militant about this than I am.”

Harry opened his eyes and turned to face him. “Why?”

Ron leaned his side against the window. “Because we love you. And you’re lonely. Have been for a long time. One offs in a club loo don’t count.”

Harry grimaced. “Jesus, Ron.”

“What, you think I don’t know?” He shook his head. “It’s a fucking miracle there haven’t been pictures in the _Prophet_.” Harry groaned.

“But Malfoy? I haven’t even thought about him in years.”

“You’re a really bad liar.” Ron grinned. “Do I need to bring up the six blonds a-leaping again?”

Harry laughed in spite of himself. “Now my love life is a Christmas carol.”

“If the five golden rings fit – “

Harry rubbed his face. “Why are we friends again?”

“Because no one else would put up with your shite. Except Hermione.”

Harry’s laughter rang down the quiet street. “One of the things I’ve always admired about you Weasley’s; utter, brutal honesty.” He let his head lay back against the glass again. “But Malfoy? Ron, we’d kill each other. Seriously, we can’t have a conversation that doesn’t devolve into a fight.”

Ron’s grin was wicked. “You think Hermione and I don’t fight?” He winked. “Makes for some damn fine make-up sex. I’ve got two kids to prove it.”

Harry grimaced and put his fingers in his ears. “La la la, I can’t hear you!”

Ron laughed. “I reckon there ain’t a whole lot that can make me forget the Contraceptive charm like a good argument.” He straightened away from the shop window. “You think we should head back now, or are you okay to go on?”

Harry straightened. “I’m okay to go on.” He pushed away from the window, then glanced back. And went still, staring. After a moment, laughing. Ron turned and within moments, joined him.

“That is brill,” he said, and Harry nodded. 

“That is the best jewelry store window I’ve ever seen.”

“It is.” 

It wasn’t a big shop. In fact, it was quite small. The window wasn’t large, just big enough that the two of them had been able to lean against it side by side. There was a small round antique table, and atop it, as if frozen in mid gesture, was the most brilliant sculpture of a Niffler Harry had ever seen. Every strand of hair was almost lovingly rendered, and the beady little black eyes and the orange beak shown in soft lighting. At his clawed foot there was a necklace, pearls and stones gleaming. Some pine cones and a small sprig of greenery were the only nod to the season. And yet it made him recall that an important holiday was ten days away.

Harry elbowed Ron lightly. “Let’s go in,” he said. “We’ve both still got Christmas shopping to do for your wife, and that window deserves some patronage.”

Ron smiled, then bowed comically. “At your service, Chief Auror.”

“Oh, bite my arse, you idiot.” Harry muttered. “Open the damned door.”

Ron did.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

Written for this lovely prompt:

_Harry rubbed his face. “Why are we friends again?”_

_“Because no one else would put up with your shite. Except Hermione.”_

_Harry’s laughter rang down the quiet street. “One of the things I’ve always admired about you Weasley’s; utter, brutal honesty.” He let his head lay back against the glass again. “But Malfoy? Ron, we’d kill each other. Seriously, we can’t have a conversation that doesn’t devolve into a fight.”_

_Ron’s grin was wicked. “You think Hermione and I don’t fight?” He winked. “Makes for some damn fine make-up sex. I’ve got two kids to prove it.”_

_Harry grimaced and put his fingers in his ears. “La la la, I can’t hear you!”_

_Ron laughed. “I reckon there ain’t a whole lot that can make me forget the Contraceptive charm like a good argument.” He straightened away from the shop window. “You think we should head back now, or are you okay to go on?”_

_Harry straightened. “I’m okay to go on.” He pushed away from the window, then glanced back. And went still, staring. After a moment, laughing. Ron turned and within moments, joined him._

_“That is brill,” he said, and Harry nodded._

_“That is the best jewelry store window I’ve ever seen.”_

_“It is.”_

_It wasn’t a big shop. In fact, it was quite small. The window wasn’t large, just big enough that the two of them had been able to lean against it side by side. There was a small round antique table, and atop it, as if frozen in mid gesture, was the most brilliant sculpture of a Niffler Harry had ever seen. Every strand of hair was brilliantly and almost lovingly rendered, and the beady little black eyes and the orange beak shown in soft lighting. At his clawed foot there was a necklace, pearls and stones gleaming. Some pine cones and a small sprig of greenery was were the only nod to the season. And yet it made you him recall that an important holiday was ten days away._

_Harry elbowed Ron lightly. “Let’s go in,” he said. “We’ve both still got Christmas shopping to do for your wife, and that window deserves some patronage.”_

_Ron smiled, then bowed comically. “At your service, Chief Auror.”_

_“Oh, bite my arse, you idiot.” Harry muttered. “Open the damned door.”_

_Ron did._

Harry was in physical therapy the next morning, his back screaming as he pressed up with his hips and held the position while Ronan, his therapist, counted to twenty as slowly as was humanly possible. 

“…19…20.”

Harry collapsed to the mat, reaching up with his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his eyes and to push his fringe away from his face. 

“Well done,” Ronan said, patting him on the shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit shaky,” Harry admitted, “but not as much as yesterday.”

“That’s good.” Ronan scribbled something on Harry’s chart, then slipped the pen into his front pocket, closing the file with a snap. He gave Harry a bright smile, and if he’d been Harry’s type, Harry might’ve gone for the flirtation that was unmistakable in Ronan’s dark eyes. Unfortunately, his hair was dark brown, and the blond Harry actually wanted was lurking somewhere nearby. 

He had the most annoying habit of turning up at worst moments, at least where Harry was concerned. When he’d just given the walker, the bane of his existence, a childish kick. When he cursed at Kingsley on the phone for insisting he take another two weeks off. When he pushed his dinner tray away with a grimace. Each of those times, Malfoy had swooped in like a holiday spirit; the ghost of Christmas arsehole. _Did the walker offend you, Potter? Nice to know you’re such a big deal that you can curse at the Minister for Magic, Potter. Oh, the cuisine not to your liking, POTTER?_ Harry hadn’t hated his name this much since Snape had drawled it in his face every day in potions.

Ronan was talking, and Harry tuned in with a start when he said, “I think we might be able to spring you, Harry.”

“Seriously?” Harry sat up, his heart leaping. “Like, today?”

“I’ll have to get the approval of Healer Malfoy, but I think you can keep up your recovery with a therapist closer to home.”

“I’ll decide that.” 

And, of course, there was Malfoy, standing with his arms crossed and his legs braced, wearing another of his seemingly endless scrub tops and a pair of jeans that had figured prominently in Harry’s dreams the night before. 

Harry turned is head and shot Malfoy what he hoped was a sinister look. “Are you really so petty that you’d keep me here longer, just because you _can_?”

Malfoy frowned at him. “I’m a professional, Potter. If I keep you here, it’s because you aren’t strong enough to go home yet. Don’t be a child.”

Feeling properly put in his place, Harry looked away, his ears so hot he knew they were bright red. “My apologies.”

“Will wonders never cease.” Malfoy stalked over, reaching his hand out for Harry’s chart. Ronan gave it to him with a smile that seemed to have no trouble ignoring Malfoy’s high-handedness. Malfoy studied the chart carefully, flipping through the pages, making small, indecipherable noises in his throat. After what felt like a very long time, he closed the chart and handed it back to Ronan.

“Get the name of an approved therapist connected to St. Mungo’s and make your first follow up appointment, and I’ll let you leave this afternoon.”

Harry blinked. “Seriously?”

Malfoy raised a sardonic brow. “Do I appear to be lying, Potter?”

Harry studied the level, serious gray eyes. He pushed to his feet, forcing down the pained grimace that wanted to pull at his mouth. He’d be damned if he showed any weakness now. “Malfoy,” he paused, then pressed on. “I… I need to thank you properly. You did this amazing thing for me, and I’ve… well, I’ve not been as grateful as I should be. So, thank you.”

The brow Harry both hated, and had grown seriously fond of, arched toward the pale blond hairline. “My, my. That must have hurt.”

Harry couldn’t believe his first impulse was to grin at the snarky tone. “Not as much as I’d have thought, actually.”

They stared at one another until Malfoy finally took a step back. “Get out of here before I change my mind, Potter.” He sneered at him. “Because I _can_.”

Harry wasn’t cowed a bit, and Malfoy looked startled when he laughed. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Harry headed for his room with a spring in his step. 

Malfoy watched him go, melancholy filling his chest. He turned and went to his office. He would bury himself in his work; he’d forget these treacherous feelings for Potter if it was the last thing he did. 

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

The doorbell echoed through the house, and Ron glanced over at Hermione. They were in the sitting room having hot chocolate and cookies with the children, Molly’s famous ‘snowman mallows’ as she called them floating on the top. There was a fire on the hearth and candles lit on the mantle, and it was as quiet as it ever was in a house with two small children.

“Are we expecting anyone?” Ron asked, pushing up from the sofa.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“I’ll go with you, Daddy,” Rosie said, looking at him sternly. “You can’t be too careful.”

Ron chewed a smile down and nodded soberly. “You’re so right, Rosie. It’s good to know you’ve got my back.”

They walked through the darkened hall, Ron taking the Deluminator Dumbledore had given him so long ago and flicking the top. The balls of light he loved floated up to hover near the ceiling. The wreath on the front door blocked the peep hole, and Ron glanced down at Rose’s curly red hair. He had a momentary flashback of the years leading up to the war, the only time in his whole life his parents had locked the doors to the Burrow. He was so grateful those days were over.

He unlocked the heavy door and pulled it open, and Rose squealed.

“Uncle Harry!!” She rushed past Ron and threw her arms around Harry’s hips, burying her face against his stomach. He laughed and caressed her curls with a gloved hand. 

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

Written for this lovely prompt:

_The doorbell echoed through the house, and Ron glanced over at Hermione. They were in the sitting room having hot chocolate and cookies with the children, Molly’s famous ‘snowman mallows’ as she called them floating on the top. There was a fire on the hearth and candles lit on the mantle, and it was as quiet as it ever was in a house with two small children._

_“Are we expecting anyone?” Ron asked, pushing up from the sofa._

_“Not that I’m aware of.”_

_“I’ll go with you, Daddy,” Rosie said, looking at him sternly. “You can’t be too careful.”_

_Ron chewed a smile down and nodded soberly. “You’re so right, Rosie. It’s good to know you’ve got my back.”_

_They walked through the darkened hall, Ron taking the deluminator Dumbledore had given him so long ago and flicking the top. The balls of light he loved floated up to hover near the ceiling. The wreath on the front door blocked the peep hole, and Ron glanced down at Rose’s curly red hair. He had a momentary flashback of the years leading up to the war, the only time in his whole life his parents had locked the doors to the Burrow. He was so grateful those days were over._

_He unlocked the heavy door and pulled it open, and Rose squealed._

_“Uncle Harry!!” She rushed past Ron and threw her arms around Harry’s hips, burying her face against his stomach. He laughed and caressed her curls with a gloved hand._

“Harry, Mate!” Ron stuck out his hand and Harry reached over Rose’s head to shake it. “Why didn’t you tell us you were being sprung? We’d have come to get you!”

“And make you have to find someone for the kids and disrupt your evening? Well, more than I already am.” He laughed. “No worries. I managed.”

Ron tugged gently on one of Rose’s curls. “Rosie, honey, let Uncle Harry in the house.” 

Rose grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him into the entry way, and Hugo wrapped his arms around one of Harry’s legs, sitting on his foot and riding Harry as he entered the house.

“Hugo, baby.” Ron leaned over and plucked his son from his best friend’s leg. “Uncle Harry isn’t a broom, and we need to let him heal up a bit more before we start riding him, yeah?”

“Harry.” 

Hermione came through the doorway leading to the hallway, arms open and a bright smile on her face. She threw her arms around Harry’s neck, laughing.

“Oh, Harry!”

“Hi, love.” Harry wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. 

“I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Not as glad as I am.” He pulled back and smiled down at her.

“Where is your luggage?” Ron asked, herding everyone toward the sitting room.

“In my pocket.” Harry grinned. “I shrunk everything down before I left the clinic.”

Rose insisted Harry take the comfortable armchair near the fire, and went with Ron into the kitchen to make him a mug of cocoa, floating two of her grandma’s snowman marshmallows on the top and two sugar cookies on a plate. She placed everything on a small tray, and then solemnly, carefully carried it all to her Uncle Harry. As she sat it on the ottoman near his knees, she looked up at him.

“Uncle Harry,” she said, sounding far more grown up than she actually was, “we have been very worried about you.”

Harry returned her serious look. “I’m sorry, Rosie.”

“You have to be more careful.”

“You’re right, sweetheart. I do.”

She studied him. “Promise me you won’t go to hospital again.”

Harry blinked. “I’ll sure try not to.”

She sighed. “Well, if that’s the best you can do.”

Ron hid a smile behind his hand.

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_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

“She’s something else,” Harry said, his stocking feet on the ottoman and a cup of cocoa (complete with a splash of Bailey’s) in his hand. Hermione had just finally got the kids into bed and settled, and the comfortable house seemed to sigh in relief around them.

“She’s her mother,” Ron said. 

Harry nodded. “She is.”

Hermione didn’t say anything, but she looked very pleased.

“And Hugo, bless him, is me.” Ron shook his head and took a sip of his cocoa. “Poor wee mad man.”  
Harry chuckled, then sighed contentedly. “This is the best. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. You never realize how awful hospitals are until you’re stuck in one.”

“That was a pretty snazzy private hospital, Harry.”

“It was,” he agreed. “And I still couldn’t wait to get the hell out.”

Hermione gave him a sardonic look. “Even given your attraction to your surgeon?”

Harry looked into his mug pensively, watching the little snowman slowly dissolve. He sighed. “I don’t think it matters.”

Hermione gaped at him. “Of course it matters,” she said earnestly. 

“Hermione, every time we’re in the same room we end biting each other’s head off. Do I think he’s hot? Gods, yes. I’d tell you exactly how hot I think he is, but Ron might vomit.”

Ron made a face and Hermione kicked the bottom of his foot.

“I’ve news for you, beloved of mine. _I_ think he’s hot. Malfoy has grown up very, very well. He’s an intensely sexy man.”

“That he is,” Harry agreed. “Speaking of biting, I want to bite him right here.” He pointed to a place just above his clavicle, and Hermione nodded.

“He does have a lovely neck.”

“Oy.” Ron grimaced. “I don’t think I needed to hear any of this.”

“Sorry, Ron. He’s very handsome. And he’s got a thing for Harry.” She lifted her cup and saluted him. 

Harry shook his head sadly. “I wish it was enough. Hermione, there’s just too much water under that bridge. We’d kill each other. No, love. It would never work.”

She gave him a skeptical look but didn’t say anything else. Harry turned to study the fire burning merrily on the hearth, sighing softly. At least one of the four of them had learned when to stop talking.

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_hpdmbhpdmhpdm_

Draco’s hands and feet were starting to go numb, but he kept walking.

Pansy had sent him an owl that afternoon, inviting him to meet her for dinner at a new restaurant not far from the London entrance to Diagon Alley. In fact, he could see the sign for the Leaky from the sidewalk out front. His dinner (sea bass with fennel and asparagus) had been excellent, and as always, Pansy was entertaining, but hovering in the back of his mind all evening had been an image of Potter, cheerfully leaving the clinic after giving Rebecca a jaunty wave goodbye. He hadn’t seen Draco standing in the doorway behind her, watching him go. His heart in his throat.

He jammed his hands deeper into the pockets of his overcoat, walking toward Tower Bridge and the Thames. There’d been another fall of snow while they were eating, and the blocky cement balustrade of the bridge had a neat cap of white. Big Ben hovered over the scene in the distance, and it was classic London. There wasn’t usually this much snow, but it made the view very charming, even though the snow dispelling charms on his half boots wasn’t working nearly as well as it should be.

He turned to follow the River Walk along the bank of the Thames, his head down and his hair ruffled by the wind. 

Pansy, as ever, was far to perceptive for Draco’s piece of mind.

“So, spit it out,” she’d said after Draco had missed the punch line to her oh so very amusing story about her mother and her hideous new sitting room curtains.

“Sorry?” He frowned at her.

“I am a brilliant conversationalist, and you are all but ignoring me.” She pursed her red painted lips. “I do not appreciate your inattention, my dear.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, darling. It’s just… been a long week.”

“It’s been a long week, or you’ve been distracted by one of your patients. Oh…perhaps one that’s about six feet tall, with disastrous black hair and vivid green eyes?”

“How the fuck do you even know…” Draco caught his breath, then snarled. “I will fire him, the mouthy buggar.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, stop it. You will not fire my cousin.”

“Repeating information about a patient is unethical, Pansy, and Ronan knows it.”

“He repeated absolutely nothing about your patient. I don’t even know why he was there, but I can guess. Our illustrious Chief Auror caught himself a spell, I imagine. But Ronan didn’t tell me anything, other than he thought Potter had the hots for _you_. Of course, I can guess how that went, too, because you are a stupidly stubborn sod with a self-destructive streak.”

Draco looked away, his jaw flexing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t think so? Let me tell you how this went.” She stared at Draco, unflinching in the face of his obvious fury. “He ended up in your clinic with a back injury, obviously. Anyone could figure that part out. But you, as usual with Potter, ended up sniping and snarling at him even though you’ve had a thing for him forever, and now you’re feeling sorry for yourself because he did what any sane person would do, and walked. Away.”

Draco stared down into his glass of whiskey, neat, not willing to see the look in her eyes. 

“Oh, Draco.” She sighed. “Why is it that you can be so bloody brilliant as a surgeon, and so utterly stupid about your personal life? Particularly when it comes to the one person you’ve wanted since you were fifteen?”

He didn’t have an answer. And now, as he strode through the snow in the shadow of Big Ben, he still didn’t have one.

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

Written for this lovely prompt:  


_“So, spit it out,” she’d said after Draco had missed the punch line to her oh so very amusing story about her mother and her hideous new sitting room curtains._

_“Sorry?” He frowned at her._

_“I am a brilliant conversationalist, and you are all but ignoring me.” She pursed her red painted lips. “I do not appreciate your inattention, my dear.”_

_He sighed. “I’m sorry, darling. It’s just… been a long week.”_

_“It’s been a long week, or you’ve been distracted by one of your patients. Oh…perhaps one that’s about six feet tall, with disastrous black hair and vivid green eyes?”_

_“How the fuck do you even know…” Draco caught his breath, then snarled. “I will fire him, the mouthy buggar.”_

_She rolled her eyes. “Oh, stop it. You will not fire my cousin.”_

_“Repeating information about a patient is unethical, Pansy, and Ronan knows it.”_

_“He repeated absolutely nothing about your patient. I don’t even know why he was there, but I can guess. Our illustrious Chief Auror caught himself a spell, I imagine. But Ronan didn’t tell me anything, other than he thought Potter had the hots for _you_. Of course, I can guess how that went, too, because you are a stupidly stubborn sod with a self-destructive streak.”_

_Draco looked away, his jaw flexing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_“You don’t think so? Let me tell you how this went.” She stared at Draco, unflinching in the face of his obvious fury. “He ended up in your clinic with a back injury, obviously. Anyone could figure that part out. But you, as usual with Potter, ended up sniping and snarling at him even though you’ve had a thing for him forever, and now you’re feeling sorry for yourself because he did what any sane person would do, and walked. Away.”_

_Draco stared down into his glass of whiskey, neat, not willing to see the look in her eyes._

_“Oh, Draco.” She sighed. “Why is it that you can be so bloody brilliant as a surgeon, and so utterly stupid about your personal life? Particularly when it comes to the one person you’ve wanted since you were fifteen?”_

_He didn’t have an answer. And now, as he strode through the snow in the shadow of Big Ben, he still didn’t have one._

Harry walked. 

He’d been doing a lot of that since being released from Malfoy’s clinic. His new physical therapist, an irritatingly perky elf of a woman named Naomi, had told him just that afternoon he couldn’t run or fly yet, but walking was an ideal way for him to strengthen the muscles in his lower back. She also put him through forty minutes of torture she called stretching and strengthening, and by the time she was done with him he’d felt like a wet noodle. Her assurances that he was in great shape and would be feeling his old self in no time did very little to make him feel better when his abs were screaming and his lower back was aching. 

“This is supposed to help?” He’d gasped, lying flat on the floor on an exercise mat, sweat streaming down his face and chest, soaking his hair. He felt like he had the first week of Auror training when he’d been nineteen, and had spent the six months immediately after the war doing little more than drinking and sleeping. He’d truly thought he was going to die that first day, and it had been a real shot to his ego when Auror’s ten years his senior had been able to run circles around him. He’d never let himself get that out of shape since. Until now.

It was also infuriating that Naomi, blond ponytail bouncing and pretty little face earnest, was so bound and determined that he was going to use the bloody walker. He knew his limits, as he kept telling Hermione. (She seemed as hell bent on making sure he used the blasted thing as Naomi was.) But he was stubbornly only using it when he was at home. Sometimes. He’d gone to the Ministry to see Kingsley that afternoon, and he wasn’t going to show up there toddling around with a fucking walker. Not when he’d planned to make a stop on he Auror floor, as well.

He knew it was infantile, but it always entertained him when his first year trainees went a bit pale on sight of him. When he first got off the lift, the floor had been awash with noise and laughter, memo’s darting about, the scent of burned coffee in the air. He paused just long enough to inhale, then headed down the long hall to his office. Harry wasn’t a hard-arsed, by the book Chief, but he wasn’t all ‘hail fellow, well met’ during business hours either, and the whole place was a bit raucous for any actual work to be getting done. A lot of that noise died, however, when his Auror’s caught sight of him heading to his office. He chuckled remembering it, his breath coming out on a puff of condensation.

Kingsley wasn’t bending an inch on Harry staying off until after the first of the year, and Hermione and Molly were making very sure he didn’t do anything at home, either. In fact, he’d gone to physical therapy that day and come home to a perfectly clean flat, all of his dishes washed and laundry done. He loved them so much, but forcing him to do absolutely nothing was driving him spare. He’d watched as much football as a person could and read an actual biography of Dumbledore, not that load of shite Skeeter had written, but even so he’d felt as if something was missing. He’d found out well after Dumbledore’s death that he was gay, and the supposition was that he’d had a relationship with Grindelwald when they’d both been in their early twenties. This author was almost too respectful, sticking mostly to his magical accomplishments, and Harry found himself a bit disappointed there wasn’t more about the man.

He walked on through the chilly evening. He’d set out initially to pick up some dinner, but now that he was out he wasn’t hungry, so Harry decided to head to the Christmas Market not far from the London Eye. The crowds downtown weren’t too bad yet, and it was cold enough that the snow already on the ground wasn’t melting into gray, wet puddles, and yet not so cold that he was miserable. He could see the bright lights of the Christmas market in the distance, and just before this side of it was the ice skating oval. Harry had never been much of a skater himself, but he loved to watch people who were good at it. He could hear the Christmas Carols playing over the loud speakers as he approached, and the riotous laughter of children as they zoomed past older couples gliding arm in arm. Drawn by the sight of so many people enjoying themselves, Harry watched from the fence bordering the rink. He walked over and leaned against it, his back grateful for the reprieve. 

Harry watched the skaters for several minutes, enjoying the happy, smiling faces with just a bit of nostalgia. He remembered watching Gin fly around the frozen pond out back of the Burrow. She could jump and spin and he’d been amazed finding out she’d never had lessons; the Weasley’s never really had money to go around for things like that, so all her talent was natural. She was fearless, which was made her such a bold chaser for the Harpies now. There was one young girl racing in and around the other skaters, and the way she moved, utterly unafraid, reminded Harry forcefully of Ginny.

There were several talented skaters in amongst the amateurs. One pair looked like a father and daughter, the father tall and graceful, the child perhaps eight of nine, her mink brown hair pulled back into a long braid. She reminded Harry of Parkinson when he first met her, and a few minutes later Harry realized why. While he watched a man and woman who were unmistakably Pansy and Theo Nott skated up to the other pair and changed partners. The man with the child took off his cap and bowed low over his knee, filling the child with delight and Harry with a sort of breathless combination of delight and dread. He could never mistake the white blond hair that spilled from the cap for belonging to anyone else.

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

Written for this lovely prompt:

My beloved beta has been knocked flat by the flu. All mistakes are mine.

_Harry walked on through the chilly evening. He’d set out initially to pick up some dinner, but now that he was out he wasn’t hungry, so he decided to head to the Christmas Market not far from the London Eye. The crowds downtown weren’t too bad yet, and it was cold enough that the snow already on the ground wasn’t melting into gray, wet puddles, and yet not so cold that he was miserable. He could see the bright lights of the Christmas market in the distance, and just before this side of it was the ice skating oval. Harry had never been much of a skater himself, but he loved to watch people who were good at it. He could hear the Christmas Carols playing over the loud speakers as he approached, and the riotous laughter of children as they zoomed past older couples gliding arm in arm. Drawn by the sight of so many people enjoying themselves, Harry watched from the low fence bordering the rink. He walked over and leaned on it, his back grateful for the reprieve._

_Harry watched the skaters for several minutes, enjoying the happy, smiling faces with just a bit of nostalgia. He remembered watching Gin fly around the frozen pond out back of the Burrow. She could jump and spin and he’d been amazed finding out she’d never had lessons; the Weasley’s never really had money to go around for things like that, so all her talent was natural. She was fearless, which was made her such a bold chaser for the Harpies now. There was one young girl racing in and around the other skaters, and the way she moved, utterly unafraid, reminded Harry forcefully of Ginny._

_There were several talented skaters in amongst the amateurs. One pair looked like a father and daughter, the father tall and graceful, the child perhaps eight of nine, her mink brown hair pulled back into a long braid. She reminded Harry of Parkinson when he first met her, and a few minutes later Harry realized why. While he watched a man and woman who were unmistakably Pansy and Theo Nott skated up to the other pair and changed partners. The man with the child took off his cap and bowed low over his knee, filling the child with delight and Harry with a sort of breathless combination of delight and dread. He could never mistake the white blond hair that spilled from the cap for belonging to anyone else._

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Draco pushed his fringe back beneath his cap and held out his arm, waiting for Pansy to slip her hand round his elbow. She was watching Theo and Penny skate away, and after a long moment, he elbowed her in the side.

“Ouch, you evil twit,” she complained. He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, please. I barely touched you. You plan to take my arm, or are we going to stand here until someone bows us over?”

She smacked him smartly on the arm, then slipped her hand through the bend of his elbow. “You either apologize to me for that staggeringly enormous lie, for I believe I shall have a bruise on my ribs, or I’ll be taking back that beautiful pudding I left for you at the clinic.”

“Fine, you easily offended bovine,” he muttered. “I am truly, madly, deeply, horribly sorry. But only because it is in fact a beautiful pudding, and you know how much I love them.”

She smiled up at him sweetly, and he shook his head. 

“It’s Theo’s mother’s recipe. And given that the evil old bitch had to die before I could steal the bloody thing from her file, you truly should be honored.”

Draco laughed. “I’m truly am honored that you bake for me at all. The house elves at the Manor always did a lovely pudding, you know.” She glared at him. “Let me finish. Gods, you’re a pill. I was going to say yours is better, but now I shan’t because you are a dreadful snot.”

She giggled. “I am, I know, but I will keep that compliment because I’ve eaten Mipsy’s pudding, and I’ve rarely had better.” They glided easily next to one another, years of skating as partners, beginning when they were still aged in single digits, behind them. Narcissa had paid for lessons one year, even though Lucius and Pansy’s father had found them an utter waste of time and money. Draco had always been grateful that it was one of the few arguments she’d won. It probably would have been more effective if she’d won the one where she told his father that throwing his lot in with Voldemort again was foolish. He was amazed she’d never held it over his head; Draco would have. “So,” she went on, “how is Pen doing?”

“She’s coming along beautifully,” he said. “Her couch must be pleased.”

Even though Penny was already a very talented witch at 10, all she wanted in life was to be a figure skater. Draco found the whole thing very amusing, but there was little question that the child could eventually be professional if she still wanted to.

“Her coach is an arse, and is never pleased.”

“Well, she’ll have to work up to his expectations, then. How do you plan to manage lessons next year when she’s at Hogwarts?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” she answered. “We’ll cross that pitch when we get to it. Fortunately, Theo adores her and dotes on her and spoils her, not necessarily in that order.” They glided easily around one end of the oval, and Pansy glanced back over her shoulder. “And there’s an absolutely lovely set of shoulders leaning against the fence on that end. Wearing a dark overcoat, and a red hat.”

“Oh, really?” 

“Would I lie to you? Shall we turn and go back?”

Draco gave her a wry look. “I think not. I can wait until we navigate the entire oval before having a look. I’m not desperate.”

“Well, you should be,” she said tartly. “By my calculation you haven’t had a good seeing to in months, and that’s just sad.”

Draco looked at her in exasperation. “I can’t decide what I find more disturbing; that you notice the breadth of a man’s shoulders while you’re out with your husband and child, or that you think you know how long it’s been since… well, since.”

“First of all,” Pansy answered, a smile in her voice, “I think Theo would be disappointed if I missed this bloke’s shoulders. You do remember that he rather likes a nice set, himself, yes?”

“I do, actually.” Draco and Theo had had a thing for about a minute and a half in fifth year, which Pansy knew only too well. She’d been so jealous she’d been greener that her Slytherin scarf. She pinched his bicep at the pointed reminder, and he knew the thickness of his coat was the only that saved him from a bruise.

“And as for Pen, she’s yet to notice boys let alone men. I’m praying to Merlin that she stays that way for a while.”

“Then she doesn’t take after you.”

Pansy’s laughter carried. “She doesn’t a bit, which is a blessing.”

Draco didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so he didn’t say precisely how right she was. Pen was a sweet little thing, something Pansy had never been. But then, Pen was part of the first generation in decades raised without the shadow of a madman hanging over them; Theo and Pans could afford to let her keep her sweetness.

They were coming up on the curve where Pansy had spotted the shoulders at the boards, and Draco looked over casually. The bloke had his head down so all he could really see from the shoulders up was a red skull cap, but the shoulders, were in fact, impressive. The coat was nipped in with a belt at his slim waist, and fitted around narrow hips.

“My my,” Draco drawled. “He is lovely, isn’t he?” They started past him as his head came up, and Draco saw the square jaw and the chiseled cheekbones, and his smooth glide stuttered. He nearly pitched them both to the ice.

“Draco,” Pansy said sharply. “What the bloody hell was that?”

Draco caught his breath and evened out his stride. “It’s Potter.”

Pansy gasped and looked over her shoulder, her turn to nearly pitch them head first. “What’s he doing here?”

“How should I know?” he answered crossly, but he was thinking precisely the same thing. 

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

Written for this lovely prompt:

_They were coming up on the curve where Pansy had spotted the shoulders at the boards, and Draco looked over casually. The bloke had his head down so all he could really see from the shoulders up was a red skull cap, but the shoulders were in fact impressive. The coat was nipped in with a belt at his slim waist, and fitted around narrow hips._

_“My my,” Draco drawled. “He is lovely, isn’t he?” They started past him as his head came up, and Draco saw the square jaw and the chiseled cheekbones, and his smooth glide stuttered and he nearly pitched them both to the ice._

_“Draco,” Pansy said sharply. “What the bloody hell was that?”_

_Draco caught his breath and evened out his stride. “It’s Potter.”_

_Pansy gasped and looked over her shoulder, her turn to nearly pitch them face first. Draco hissed at her. “What’s he doing here?” she said._

_“How should I know?” he asked crossly, but he was thinking precisely the same thing._

Harry watched Parkinson and Draco glide by, even though he lowered his head at the last minute in hopes it would keep either of them from recognizing him. And it might’ve worked, if he hadn’t lifted it again just to get a peek. Malfoy’s coat and white fur hat made him feel a bit weak in the knees.

“Oh, fuck me,” he muttered when he saw Draco nearly fall, then look back at him. Clearly, he’d recognized him, and Harry found himself wondering belatedly why he hadn’t thought of a glamour or a ‘notice me not’ spell, something, anything. When Draco’s mouth set in a flat line and he started back over to him, Harry took a deep breath and squared his shoulders defensively, still tentatively considering Apparating on the spot.

Malfoy looked fabulous, even with his red face and narrowed eyes. 

“What are you doing here?”

Harry blinked. “I was just walking by and I saw the rink, and…” He stopped, his own ire ignited. “I didn’t realize this was Malfoy property. I _do_ hope you’ll beg my pardon for trespassing.”

“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” Malfoy snarled back. 

“Wait, you mean I’ve not wandered onto the Manor grounds somehow?” He looked around at the other people on the rink. “Although I should have known; all of these Muggles would never be tolerated on the grounds of the family estate. And gee,” Harry pretended to look around, “Not a peacock anywhere.”

Malfoy stiffened. “Whatever made me think for even a moment that you weren’t still an enormous arse?”

“Right back at you, you pompous prick.”

They glared at each other, and Harry could have sworn he felt his magic surge off of him in waves. Malfoy’s did the same, the wave a gold color where Harry’s was green, ironically. He watched their magic join, static electricity popping in the air between them as the colors melded and joined before slipping up in a funnel cloud, then disappearing. Malfoy’s eyes widened, and Harry saw him catch his breath. 

“What the hell was – “

Harry swallowed heavily. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen -- ”

They stood there, staring, until a kid zipped past Malfoy close enough that his coat flared out in the resulting breeze. “Get out of the middle of the rink, you moron,” the boy shouted, and Malfoy turned, every line of his body conveying outrage and promising retribution.

“Don’t do it,” Harry said, his equilibrium returning in a rush. “I’d have to arrest you and summon the Auror’s to obliviate everyone, and that would just be messy.” 

Malfoy turned back to him, and after a moment the stiff lines of his body softened and he shook his head. “I can’t anyway; Pansy would never forgive me if I got her and Theo arrested.”

“Nott? Parkinson is with Nott?”

“Has been for nearly a decade. Where’ve you been? It made the front page of the _Prophet._ ”

Harry gave him a wry look. “Gee, I can’t imagine how I missed that, given that I never look at the rag. See, the Auror Division frowns on its Chief's hexing reporters, and Skeeter would’ve been toast if I’d seen even her byline.”

“But think of the service you’d have done for mankind.” Malfoy skated over until he was standing on the other side of the boards, and between his skates and the several inches of ice that made up the rink floor, Harry found himself having to look way, way up into his face. “I only know about the paper because Pansy forced me to look at it,” Malfoy went on. “Mother stopped taking it just after the war, and I certainly never cared what they wrote about us. And why am I babbling?”

He looked so genuinely horrified that Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “I make you nervous, maybe?”

Malfoy peered down his still pointy, though not nearly as unattractive, nose. For some reason, even though he was pointy, on an adult his features were very, very attractive. ‘Ferret’ was not a word he’d associate with him. 

“You do not make me nervous,” he protested. There was enough light that Harry could see his cheeks turn pink across his high cheekbones, in spite of his insistence. And Harry found himself utterly charmed by that blush.

“Why is it,” Harry said finally, when once again they’d stared long enough that it was growing awkward, “that every time we see one another, we end up fighting? It might worry me if we did stop, but still…you’d have thought we would have outgrown it by now.” He hesitated, something he’d wanted to say for years hovering between them. “Especially when one of our fights ended disastrously, back when we were young and – “ He hesitated.

“Stupid?” One of Malfoy’s brows shot up, but his tone was soft, even tentative.

Harry smiled faintly. “At least one of us was. I’ve wanted to tell you how sorry I was…”

“Stop.” Malfoy shook his head. “If you’ll recall, I was trying to kill you.”

“And I nearly did kill you. If I’d succeeded, I’d never have forgiven myself.”

Malfoy shrugged one shoulder. “And if I’d succeeded, none of us would be here now.” 

This was a very strange conversation to be having out in the open, in the middle of London, surrounded by people, and the pregnant pauses were growing longer by the moment. But Harry was so glad they were finally having it. It was long overdue.

Malfoy looked over his shoulder, then turned back. “Potter, I have to go – “ He gestured across the rink. “Pansy…”

“Go,” Harry said easily. Malfoy started to turn. “Draco – “ Harry caught him just as he began to push off. “I’m glad we talked. And I truly wasn’t following you. This time.”

Malfoy smiled, almost as if it caught him before he could school it off of his features. “I believe you. This time. I’ll… see you around, Potter.” Harry gave him an exasperated look, which made him laugh. “Fine. Harry. See you.”

“See you.”

Harry watched him skate gracefully to his friends, twirling with Parkinson’s little girl when he got there, laughing. He glanced back at Harry, and lifted his hand to wave. 

Harry returned the gesture before turning to walk away. He knew he had a stupid grin on his face as he turned away, and he didn’t care.

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Harry took the lift up to the floor that held his flat, grateful more than ever that Hermione had talked him into the more expensive place in downtown London. She’d said he could afford it as Chief Auror and that it was time he lived somewhere nice. He was just glad she’d been persistent; after carrying the bags of his purchases from the Christmas Market, his back never would have made it up four floors. He’d been in such a great mood after his chat with Malfoy – no, _Draco_ , that he’d spent more than he meant to and had a fabulous time doing it.

Entering his dim flat, he walked into his sitting room and groaned when he set the bags down not far from the tree Ron and Hermione had put up to surprise him, then bent and stretched out the tight muscles. He’d overdone, and could only be grateful Draco hadn’t asked him where the bloody walker was. He spread his legs slightly and lay his palms on the floor, doing a long, slow stretch rather than bouncing, which was what he would have done before working with physical therapists. He was straightening when he heard the sound of an owl pecking at his office window.

It was a very handsome eagle owl, and it had a huge wing span, one wing clipping the top of Harry’s head as it soared past when he opened the window. 

“Hey,” he complained. “Cheeky bastard.” 

The bird dropped a parchment on his desk and left again without a pause, and Harry stared after him, incredulous. 

“Yeah, well fuck you, too.” He closed the window and turned up the lamp before unrolling the parchment. A smile spread across his face. “Figures that would be your bird.”

_Potter, (I refuse to write Harry; it just feels weird)_  
I saw this quote and thought of you.  
‘Don’t worry when I fight with you, worry when I stop because it means there’s nothing left to fight for.’  
I’m not sure it actually applies to us, but then again – perhaps it does.  
In that vein, would you care to join me at Parkinson’s for dinner tomorrow afternoon? Watching Theo swallow his teeth when you come in the door just might be worth the price of admission.  
D. Malfoy 

Harry took a quill from the top drawer of his desk, grinning while he inked it and wrote his reply.

TBC


	21. Chapter 21

Written for this lovely prompt:

_Entering his dim flat, Harry walked into his sitting room and groaned when he set the bags down not far from the tree Ron and Hermione had put up to surprise him. He bent and stretched out the tight muscles near his spine. He’d over done, and could only be grateful Draco hadn’t asked him where the bloody walker was. He spread his legs slightly and lay his palms on the floor, doing a long, slow stretch rather than bouncing, which was what he would have done before working with physical therapists. He was straightening when he heard the sound of an owl pecking at his office window._

_It was a very handsome eagle owl, and it had a huge wing span that clipped the top of Harry’s head as it soared in when he opened the window._

_“Hey,” he complained. “Cheeky bastard.”_

_The bird dropped a parchment on his desk and left again without a pause, and Harry stared after him, incredulous._

_“Yeah, well fuck you, too.” He closed the window and turned up the lamp before unrolling the parchment. A smile spread across his face. “Figures.”_

__Potter, (I refuse to write Harry; it just feels weird)__  
I saw this quote and thought of you.  
‘Don’t worry when I fight with you, worry when I stop because it means there’s nothing left to fight for.’  
I’m not sure it actually applies to us, but then again – perhaps it does.  
In that vein, would you care to join me at Parkinson’s for dinner tomorrow afternoon? Watching Theo swallow his teeth when you come in the door just might be worth the price of admission.  
D. Draco  
Harry took a quill from the top drawer of his desk, grinning while he inked it and wrote his reply. 

Almost from the moment he’d written, “I’d love to,” Harry had been in a bit of a panic. He knew Parkinson, of course. Anyone who had been in their year at Hogwarts remembered her, but he did in particular. It wasn’t all of his classmates who wanted to turn him over to a Dark Lord. Or perhaps she had just been the bravest to admit it out loud; he’d always sort of thought there might be any number who wanted to. He didn’t hold a grudge against Parkinson, and he had no feeling about Theo Nott at all. It wasn’t the destination that was bothering him; it was his ‘date’. 

He finally gave up and tossed some powder onto the flames in his office hearth and called out; “Ron and Hermione’s sitting room.”

Green shot through the flames and they flared, then settled, the neat little sitting room coming into view. The Christmas tree was lit merrily in the corner, packages gleaming beneath. Harry had always wondered how Hermione kept them so neatly wrapped with two small children in the house, and she’d gleefully told him she’d found a fool proof sticking charm that made them impossible to unwrap before Christmas Eve. By then, the kids were so sick of trying, they didn’t bother the gifts at all. He’d had her teach it to him so they didn’t get tempted while visiting their Uncle. 

Sitting on the floor by the ottoman, Rosie’s red curls brushed her cheek as she intently colored on a large piece of parchment.

“Hey, Rosie. Why aren’t you in bed?”

She looked up, her blue eyes widening as she grabbed the parchment and shoved it behind her back. “Don’t look, don’t look!!”

Harry held up his hands and dutifully closed his eyes. “Okay, I promise.”

There was the sound of rustling paper. “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

When he did he reared back a bit. Her piquant little face seemed just inches from his. “Rosie, back up, baby. You’re too close to the fire.”

She giggled. “Uncle Harry, you know the green ones can’t burn.”

He did. He still didn’t want her so close, just in case. “Where’s your mum, honey?”

“In the dining room. Gramma and Grammpa Granger came for dinner. They’re having big people time. I promised to be quiet, so I got to stay up. Hugo had to go to bed, though.” She seemed very pleased with that. 

“Oh.” Harry felt a sinking of disappointment. “Well, just tell Mummy I called, and I’ll talk to her later. It wasn’t important.”

“What wasn’t important?” 

Harry heard Hermione’s voice, then her face was there at Rosie’s side. She looked tired, but she smiled at him. 

“Hermione, go back to your parents. I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening.”

“You didn’t,” she said, taking a seat on the floor. “Mum and Daddy are staying until Christmas Even, then we’ll have Christmas with them before going to the Burrow for Christmas Day. They’ve gone up to bed, which is where you’re going in a minute, Missy. It’s far too late for little girls to still be up. “ She tickled her daughter, and Rose giggled. “So tell me; what isn’t important?”

Harry shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve got your parents there and everything…”

“Oy, just tell her, Mate.” He heard Ron’s voice, then his freckled hand came into view holding a wine glass half full of Merlot. “She’s going to get it out of you, anyway.”

Hermione thanked him with a soft smile, and his hands hooked under Rosie’s arms, lifting her effortlessly into the air, her sweet red velvet dress and white stockings with little red owls flying gracefully across them disappearing from view. She giggled again.

“Say good night to Uncle Harry.” Ron held her upside down and her gleaming hair hung down around her laughing face. 

“Good night, Uncle Harry!” She called, and Harry smiled.

“Good night, Rosie.” 

She waved and disappeared. Hermione took a sip of her wine. “So, talk to me.”

Harry bit his lower lip. “What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

“Taking Mum Christmas shopping on Diagon. She loves it and the only time she can go is with me. Why?”

Harry felt a surge of relief. “Can I come along?”

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Harry paced the entrance Hall of Grimmald, wearing a path in the thick nap of the new burgundy and beige carpet runner. It was two minutes until three, and he felt a bit as if he might sick up right there. When the doorbell rang, his jangling nerves skittered and his heart climbed into his throat. He rushed to the front door then paused, smoothing his hands over his new emerald creen cashmere jumper and smart blacks slacks. His new boots shone in the soft light emanating from the entryway sconces, and his hat, coat and scarf, all also newly purchased, lay over the table against the wall.

Hermione and Mrs Granger had a wonderful time dressing him, like he was a department store mannequin. They’d also cajoled him into a high end London salon, where he’d got a new, expensive haircut; how he would explain that when he went back to work after Christmas, he didn’t know. Hermione bullied him into joining them for mani’s and pedi’s, something he’d never done in his life, and he’d blushed when he imagined anyone (not just Draco, he told himself firmly) seeing his bare feet. He’d imagined his Auror’s reaction to his new look, and about decided he’d tell them all to piss off; he was Chief Auror, he could get a fucking haircut and manicure if he felt like it. His plastic had taken a major hit, but he almost never spent money on himself unless it was for work or occasional recreational flying; Hermione assured him it was time, and the end result was more than worth it. He’d thought so, too, when after his shower his normally untamable hair fell into perfectly manageable curls that looked – expensive.

After forcing himself to count to twenty, and it was damned hard, Harry opened the front door. 

And saw the back of Draco’s perfectly tailored coat and fur hat. 

“I haven’t been here in years,” he said wistfully, staring out across the snowy square. “Mother used to bring me to visit Aunt Walburga when I was little. Gods, she was a horrible old hag.” He turned, smiling, then went still on sight of Harry.

Harry fidgeted as Draco’s eyes moved from his head to his feet and back again. “Good heavens,” he said finally. “Who are you, and what have you done with Harry Potter? You know, Chief Auror Potter, the one with the impossible hair and who has absolutely no taste whatsoever?”

Harry opened the door wider. “You plan to stand on the stoop all afternoon?” He stepped back and Draco entered the house, still staring at him. 

“You look—“ he began. His eyes skimmed over Harry’s slender waist. “You are wearing the brace, yes?”

“Yes. Healer.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Be glad I won’t make you use the walker.”

“I am, truly. Thank you.”

Draco nodded, then began looking around avidly. 

After several long moments, during which Harry felt as if his heart might explode, Draco turned to him. “It looks wonderful. Like a completely different house.”

“It mostly is. It’s taken about five years.”

“I’d love the tour some time.” Draco wandered over to the bottom of the stairs, looking up. “Oh my God, you got the portrait off the wall.” He turned to Harry, eyes wide. “How?”

Harry shrugged sheepishly. “Kreacher. He moved her to her old bedroom, where he thought she’d be more comfortable and she’d stop getting aggitated by my… choice of friends.” 

He reached for his scarf and looped it around his throat. Then grabbed his hat. “No, don’t,” Draco said quickly, taking the emerald and black knit hat from his unprotesting hand. “It just – seems a shame to cover it up, is all. And I can’t believe I just said that about your hair.” Now he seemed uncomfortable and his cheeks pinked, and Harry reached for his coat, hiding a smile.

“So, what should I expect this afternoon?” He asked, sliding his arms into the heavy black wool, touching the inside button that applied the tailoring charms. It stretched to accommodate his shoulders and nipped in around the waist. 

“The usual,” Draco said. “The whole Christmas do, turkey and stuffing and sprouts and… well, all of it.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Harry lied. He doubted he’d be able to eat a bite, he was so nervous. “Who, uhm. Who else will be there?”

Draco smiled faintly. “Mr and Mrs Parkinson, the Nott’s. Pansy’s horrid grandmother.” Harry groaned, and Draco laughed. “But she’s offset by Pansy and Theo’s delightful little girl, Penny. Greg and Millie. Blaise will probably be there, if he isn’t off screwing something.”

Harry laughed in surprise. “Screwing ‘something’?”

“Oh, he’s not too picky, our Blaise.” He paused. “Then there will be Pansy and Theo’s friends, a nice mix of magical and Muggle folks.”

Harry looked at him, his eyes wide. “Seriously, Potter. You’re such a snob.”

“We’re back to Potter?” Harry shook his head. 

“Oh, come on. Admit it. If I called you Harry all the time, you’d miss hearing Potter as only I can say it.” He hesitated, then stepped closer, slipping Harry’s hat, which he still held, into Harry’s pocket. Harry felt the touch through the wool and on his hip, and he wasn’t able to suppress a faint trembling that began in his hands. “For later, when it’s cold.”

“Thanks.” 

They were so close Harry could see the pewter flecks in Draco’s silvery eyes, the sweep of his pale lashes, the almost invisible freckles across the bridge of his slender nose. His lips were slightly parted, pink and full and moist, and Harry had never wanted to kiss someone more in his life. 

TBC


	22. Chapter 22

_“So, what should I expect this afternoon?” He asked, sliding his arms into the heavy black wool, touching the inside button that applied the tailoring charms. It stretched to accommodate his shoulders and nipped in around the waist._

_“The usual,” Draco said. “The whole Christmas do, turkey and stuffing and sprouts and… well, all of it.”_

_“Sounds wonderful,” Harry lied. He doubted he’d be able to eat a bite, he was so nervous. “Who, uhm. Who else will be there?”_

_Draco smiled faintly. “Mr and Mrs Parkinson, the Nott’s. Pansy’s horrid grandmother.” Harry groaned, and Draco laughed. “But she’s offset by Pansy and Theo’s delightful little girl, Penny. Greg and Millie. Blaise will probably be there, if he isn’t off screwing something.”_

_Harry laughed in surprise. “Screwing ‘something’?”_

_“Oh, he’s not too picky, our Blaise.” He paused. “Then there will be Pansy and Theo’s friends, a nice mix of magical and Muggle folks.” Harry looked at him, his eyes wide. “Seriously, Potter. You’re such a snob.”_

_“We’re back to Potter?” Harry shook his head._

_“Oh, come on. Admit it. If I called you Harry all the time, you’d miss hearing Potter as only I can say it.” He hesitated, then stepped closer, slipping Harry’s hat, which he still held, into Harry’s pocket. Harry felt the touch through the wool and on his hip, and he wasn’t able to suppress a faint trembling that began in his hands. “For later, when it’s cold.”_

_“Thanks.”_

_They were so close Harry could see the pewter flecks in Draco’s silvery eyes, the sweep of his pale lashes, the almost invisible freckles across the bridge of his slender nose. His lips were slightly parted, pink and full and moist, and Harry had never wanted to kiss someone more in his life._

Potter was so close. He was _right there_ , and Draco admired the long sweep of his inky black eyelashes, and wanted to bite his jaw right where it turned up toward his ear. He wanted to see if his hair was soft or wiry, or if his scruff was the same; soft, short bristles that would caress his face, or coarse stubble that would give his sensitive skin a razor burn. He knew the body beneath the nice, new clothes. At the moment he was having a really hard time separating the Healer, who’d had an unobstructed view of that beautiful body, from the man, who simply wanted. 

“Pardon, Master.”

The creaky voice was loud in the silence, and Draco and Potter jumped apart like they’d suffered an electric shock. Draco turned, and there was the oldest house elf he’d ever seen standing in the door way, his huge ears quivering but his mouth twisted in a horrible parody of a smile. 

“So sorry to – interrupt.” 

Draco had never heard anyone who sounded less sorry for anything. 

“Yeah, I can tell,” Potter muttered, shooting the old elf a narrow-eyed glare. “What can I do for you, Kreacher?”

“I was just wondering if you’d be here for dinner, sir.”

“No,” Potter answered, a man who was clearly making an effort to hold onto his temper. “I believe I told you I was going to dinner with Mr. Malfoy.”

“Ah, yes.” The look the elf gave Draco made his skin crawl a bit. “Malfoy. There’s a proud wizarding name. You are Miss Cissy’s boy.”

“Yes.” Draco looked over at Harry. “We should probably go – “ He glanced back at the elf, who was frankly making his skin crawl.

Harry nodded, and they moved to the floo, Draco handling the powder and the announcement of Pansy’s address. When they stepped in, instinctively Draco reached for Harry’s strong arm, and then they were so close in the confined space he couldn’t pull it away if he wanted to. 

And he didn’t.

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

The Nott’s had a very nice townhouse, a part of a row that had been built during the Victorian era. Parkinson, when she stopped giving him a warning, narrow-eyed stare, explained it had been part of what had been used as a dowry when she married Theo. After the war, the Parkinson name had been pretty much in the toilet, and the only reason Theo’s parents even entertained the match was, even given their reputation, the Parkinson’s were loaded. As part of the ‘marriage settlement’, Theo had received the townhouse, a Manor house in the country with a massive, fully stocked stable, and an undisclosed amount in galleons. That, of course, wasn’t discussed, it being something as crass as money. Harry was fairly certain it spent just the same as any galleon, but the whole cold, businesslike quality of the transaction made him feel somewhat negatively inclined when he was introduced to both sets of parents. It really was like they’d sold Pansy to Theo; the upside was they adored one another, almost in spite of the transaction.

Draco seemed not to know quite what to do with Harry. He took his coat and scarf, his fingers brushing along Harry’s throat and over his broad shoulders, but then he got a funny look on his face and stepped away. During the meal, which was served buffet style, he stood next to Harry, but he mostly chatted with Pansy once they were seated side by side on a settee in the sitting room. Harry found himself entertained by an old woman who not so very clandestinely fed scraps to a fussy little dog. Harry covered his smile with his hand when the corgi butted his head into her hand, taking a slight nip of her palm when she didn’t come up with a bit of turkey quickly enough.

“I see you smiling over there, Harry Potter,” She said, looking at him, her lips pursed. “What I’m trying to figure out is how you happen to be in my grand-daughters sitting room.”

“He’s Draco’s guest, Gramma,” Pansy said, sending her a quelling look. 

The old woman snorted. “I’m sure he is.”

Draco blushed, and Pansy shushed her. 

All in all, it was a relatively pleasant afternoon. A very Slytherin gathering, but Blaise Zabini was surprisingly friendly, Millicent and Greg Goyle startled to see him but happy to introduce him to the biggest two month old he’d ever seen. And Theo did about swallow his teeth when Harry stepped into his sitting room, making Draco grin and elbow Harry.

It was getting dark and they’d had several glasses of liberally spiked holiday punch when they stepped into the Floo, Draco giggling in a way that made Harry want to push him against the bricks and kiss him senseless. Which would be a very, very bad idea while in the Floo network. Harry gripped Draco’s hand hard as they spun past a blur of kitchens and sitting rooms and offices. It was freezing cold, which was an idiosyncrasy of the network in winter, and Draco cursed colorfully as the wind whipped by them, catching at their hair and clothes. When they stumbled out into Harry’s sitting room, Harry was laughing and Draco was batting the soot from his jacket.

“It’s utterly ridiculous that you have to wear a fucking coat when you never step outside. And the soot it beastly hard to get out of wool.” He smacked at the coat again, and Harry grinned at him. Draco glared back. “What are you smiling at?”

“You,” Harry answered. He turned away from Draco’s quizzical frown, noticing a tray on the table in front of the couch. Sometimes Kreacher was worth keeping around. He gestured with an expansive wave of his arm; much more expansive than it would have been if he was completely sober. “Would you care for some cocoa?”

He turned back to see Draco’s eyes brighten. “Cocoa? That sounds brilliant!” 

Harry bit his lip to swallow his laugh.

He took off his coat and ran his hand through his hair, suddenly a bit nervous. Sitting on the sofa, he poured out the chocolate, then pointed his wand at the fireplace, using the spell Hagrid had taught him at age eleven to stir the banked fire to life. Hesitating a moment, Harry decided fuck it, it was his house and he wanted to be comfortable. And the new boots were starting to pinch his toes. He yanked them off and let them fall to the floor with a clunk. 

“Gee, by all means, take off your shoes, Potter,” Draco drawled, falling onto the couch at his side. Harry found he liked tipsy, unsteady Draco, quite a bit. He leaned his elbows on his knees, studying him. 

“Gee, by all means, take off your shoes, Draco.” Draco’s mouth dropped open in outrage. “Ah, come on. You know you want to.” Harry took a cup of cocoa in his hand and leaned against the back of the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table. After a moment, Draco burst into laughter. It was a free, unaffected sound and Harry was instantly in love with it. 

“What?” Harry asked, wanting to find out what had made him laugh like that so he could do it again. Daily.

“What are you wearing on your feet?” Draco giggled. Harry looked down at his socks; he honestly thought they were very tasteful, beige and tan and dark blue with tiny reindeer running across his toes. 

“What’s wrong with them?”

“There are _deer_ on them, Potter.”

“So? All right, what do yours look like, then?”

“They’re gray,” Draco answered loftily. “They match my slacks.”

Harry huffed. “So, they’re boring.”

Draco’s cheeks went pink. He leaned forward, yanking on his boots. Harry grabbed his shoulder when he nearly pitched onto his face. Finally, both shoes fell to the floor and Draco plopped his feet on the table, just missing the tray of cocoa. Harry moved it quickly out of the way.

“See?” Draco said triumphantly, completely unaware of the mess he’d nearly made. “They’re _silk_.”

Harry laughed. “They’re boring.”

Draco took his cocoa out of Harry’s hand and leaned back beside him, pressing his arm into Harry’s. He was warm and soft, and Harry wanted to put his arm around him and pull him in. He didn’t, but he wanted to. Instead, he pointed his wand surrepticiously at Draco’s feet and cast.

Draco gasped in annoyance. “Bring back my socks.”

“Nope.” 

Harry pulled a blanket off of the back of the sofa and spread it over their laps, leaving their feet uncovered. He admired the red and white socks he’d spelled onto Draco’s feet, enjoying the little white deer that frolicked across his toes. He grinned. 

“You’re certifiable,” Draco said, then yawned. He leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder. “And you have to teach me that spell.”

“Absolutely.” 

They clinked mugs, sealing the deal.

TBC


	23. Chapter 23

_“What are you wearing on your feet?” Draco giggled. Harry looked down at his socks; he honestly thought they were very tasteful, beige and tan and dark blue with tiny reindeer running across his toes._

_“What’s wrong with them?”_

_“There are _deer_ on them, Potter.”_

_“So? All right, what do yours look like, then?”_

_“They’re gray,” Draco answered loftily. “They match my slacks.”_

_Harry huffed. “So, they’re boring.”_

_Draco’s cheeks went pink. He leaned forward, yanking on his boots. Harry grabbed his shoulder when he nearly pitched onto his face. Finally, both shoes fell to the floor and Draco plopped his feet on the table, just missing the tray of cocoa. Harry moved it quickly out of the way._

_“See?” Draco said triumphantly, completely unaware of the mess he’d nearly made. “They’re _silk_.”_

_Harry laughed. “They’re boring.”_

_Draco took his cocoa out of Harry’s hand and leaned back beside him, pressing his arm into Harry’s. He was warm and soft, and Harry wanted to put his arm around him and pull him in. He didn’t, but he wanted to. Instead, he pointed his wand surreptitiously at Draco’s feet and cast._

_Draco gasped in annoyance. “Bring back my socks.”_

_“Nope.”_

_Harry pulled a blanket off of the back of the sofa and spread it over their laps, leaving their feet uncovered. He admired the red and white socks he’d spelled onto Draco’s feet, enjoying the little white deer that frolicked across his toes. He grinned._

_“You’re certifiable,” Draco said, then yawned. He leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder. “And you have to teach me that spell.”_

_“Absolutely.”_

_They clinked mugs, sealing the deal._

TBC

Draco took a sip of his cocoa, then set his mug on the small table next to the sofa rather than on the coffee table by their feet. He leaned his head on the back of the dark leather couch, rolling his head to study Harry’s profile. “Can I ask you something?”

Harry turned and looked at him. “Of course. Now, I’m not saying I’ll answer…”

“Har har, funny guy.” 

Harry grinned at him. 

“Ask your question.”

Draco turned and stared into the flames. “The other night, at the skating rink. When we were sniping at each other…”

“Like we always have.”

Draco nodded. “We have. Always. So why all of a sudden are we… doing that?”

“You mean the accidental flare of magic.”

“Yes.”

“Well, to be honest,” Harry hesitated, “I’ve had accidental bursts of magic when I’ve been angry since I was twelve years old.”

Draco stared at him incredulously. “Are you safe to release on the Wizarding public?”

Harry laughed. “It’s only happened once or twice.”

“Once or twice more than it’s happened to anyone else I know. So, was that you last night?”

“Oh, no. That was _us_.”

Draco sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Harry ran his thumb around the edge of his mug. “I asked Hermione, actually.”

Draco put his hand over his heart. “What, the Encyclopedia Britainica of witches?”

“How do you even know of the Encyclopedia Britainica?” Harry asked, grinning as he took another sip of his cocoa.

Draco gave him a droll look. “It’s a book, Potter. We had a library at the Manor the size of the Muggle main branch downtown.” He shrugged awkwardly. “And it was one of the few Muggle books my father would let me read, and even then, he told me to question a lot of it. Pure blood superiority and all that.” He knew he sounded bitter, but he couldn’t help it. He was. 

“There’s nothing wrong with questioning.”

“As long as you don’t hex anyone in the process.”

Harry chuckled. “There is that. Anyway, have you ever heard of magical compatibility?”

“Of course,” Draco answered quickly. “When one wizard’s magic enhances another’s. Strengthens it. My father always hoped he and mother, but…” Draco’s eyes widened. “Why? Is that what Granger thinks – “

Harry’s gaze was steady, his eyes so very, very green that Draco felt looking into them was like getting lost in a verdant forest. “She said that when we’re angry, it might pull that to the surface. Our magic… fighting back, because we’re fighting the compatibility.”

“We’ve been doing that forever, since we were eleven.”

“But not since our magic had matured.” A slight grin pulled at Harry’s mouth. “Not that we have so much, apparently…”

Draco tried to wrap his head around it. “So, she thinks our magic is what? – Trying to tell us something?” 

Harry nodded. “Yeah, just trying to let us know that, well …“

“What?” 

“That we belong together. That if we would just stop fighting it…” Draco stared at him for so long he could see Harry beginning to doubt. “Unless you don’t want that.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, do shut up. Sometimes you’re still so very, very stupid.” He reached up and dug his fingers into Harry’s hair, satisfying one of his questions. The black hair was soft as silk, and curled around his fingers like a living thing. He pulled Harry in and sealed his lips over his mouth, and after making a startled sound in the back of his throat, Harry turned, his hard arm going around Draco’s waist, his hand spreading on Draco’s lower back, pulling him into his solid body. 

It was heaven. Even more so when Harry slid his tongue smoothly into Draco’s mouth, and their mouths went on a slow, seductive dance, heads angled one way then the other, tongues tangling. Draco pushed forward against Harry’s hard chest and pulled against him at the same time, and collapsed onto his back.

“Whoa, wait, wait,” Harry said against his mouth, and Draco opened his eyes, swamped in disappointment until he saw Harry put his mug down on the coffee table. Then he was pushing Draco down and Draco spread his long legs to make room for Harry in the cradle of his hips. 

He was heavy, but Draco loved it. He loved the mouth on his, the chest on his, the broad shoulders he wrapped his arms around. He loved the feeling of another hard, heavy cock pressed into his. Draco made a soft desperate sound, and Harry’s hand came up to cradle his head, his fingers spearing into Draco’s hair and holding his head in place as his lips traveled down Draco’s long neck, nipping softly. Draco let his head drop back, his hips lifting into the press of Harry’s as he pushed Draco’s collar aside and opened his mouth on his throat.

“Oh, fuck,” Draco muttered, hand fisting in Harry’s hair. “That’s, gods, yes, I can’t even. Gah, Harry!”

“Do you talk all the time?” Harry asked against Draco’s skin, humor thick in his voice. “God, you taste good.”

“If you think my neck is good,” Draco said with a desperate sounding chuckle, lifting his hips slyly. Harry laughed. 

“Oh, trust me,” he said, sounding rough. “I’ll get to it.”

There was a loud, concussive pop in the room and Harry jerked up. Draco heard him growling when he saw Kreacher standing by the sofa. Draco moaned and turned his face away, letting his arm come to lie across his eyes. 

“Timing,” he muttered. “Timing, timing, timing.”

“What?” Harry asked the elf, leaning back into the corner of the sofa. “What??”

“Apologies, Master,” Kreacher said slowly. “But Mrs Weazzee has been trying to find Master for a long time. Apparently this floo,” he gestured where the fire was burning brightly, “has been closed off.”

“Yes,” Harry barked bluntly. “I closed it off after we used it so we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

Draco dropped his arm and looked up at Harry. “Pretty sure of yourself.”

Harry’s expression was incredulous. “Uhm,” he gestured to Draco lying flat on his back, “yeah, kinda.”

He turned back to the elf. “What did Hermione want?”

The elf hemmed and hawed for a few moments, as if he couldn’t remember. 

“Listen, you little shit,” Harry growled, “I will give you socks. I can spell them right onto your feet.”

Kreacher blanched. “It was something about little Wheezee,” he said in his guttural voice. “He is being sick.”

Harry sat up, dragging his hand through his hair. He turned to Draco. “I have to find out,” he said. “I’m sorry…”

“No, it’s all right,” Draco said. If Pansy floo’d and Pen was sick, Draco would be beside himself with concern. He sat up beside him, grimacing and adjusting himself in his trousers. He was still uncomfortably hard, but that was fading fast. Damnit. “Find out.”

Harry went to the hearth, unlocking the fireplace with a few softly spoken words and motions with his wand. He tossed on the floo powder, calling out Ron and Hermione’s floo address, and the flames flared green, Ron and Hermione’s kitchen coming into view. He could see Ron sitting bonelessly in one or their kitchen chairs, Hugo asleep on his shoulder. His limp little body was pressed all down his dad’s chest, his feet, one in a sloppy sock and the other bare, hanging over the arms of the chair.

“Ron,” Harry said softly. Ron didn’t respond. “Ron,” he said louder, and Ron jerked awake. Hugo made a protesting noise but then settled when Ron rubbed his palm down his back. “What’s wrong?”

Ron sighed, blinking sleepily. He rubbed his hand over his face. “Gods, Harry.” He sighed. “We called you hours ago. Where’ve you been?”

“Dinner at the Nott’s,” Harry answered.

Ron’s blue eyes widened almost comically. “You were _where_?” Harry sighed. “Dinner, with Theo and Pansy Nott and a room full of Slytherin’s.”

Ron grinned tiredly. “Damn, you must have it bad.”

Harry glared at him. “Not alone here,” he said tightly. Draco grinned. 

“Oh, I see that.” Ron waved weakly. “Cheers, Malfoy.”

“Same to you, Weasley. Oh, I never did thank you for the sandwich.”

Ron shifted a bit uncomfortably. “You saved my best friends ability to walk. A turkey sandwich was the least I could do.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to shift a bit uncomfortably. “Well, it was kind of you. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Getting back to the reason for the call, what’s wrong with Hugo?”

“We thought he’d got into his mother’s potions cabinet.”

Draco heard Harry gasp, and he even caught his own breath. That could be disastrous, even fatal. Children took entirely different potions than adults did. Their systems were so much smaller, and more susceptible to poisoning.

“We found empty bottles of Pepper up and Merlin only knows what else, and we were trying to find someone for Rose so we could get him checked out.”

“Where was Molly?” 

“This is the weekend Mum and Dad went to Bath, remember?”

Harry rubbed his hand over his head. “Oh, that’s right. Is he okay?”

“Yeah. We found he’d poured the potions in the krup’s dish.”

“Oh, God.” Harry laughed, sounding relieved. “Is Mordy okay? He didn’t kill the poor animal, did he?”

Ron chuckled wearily. “No. Ran around in circles with steam coming out of his arse, then passed out face down on the kitchen floor, snoring like a bear.” He ran his hand over his son’s head. “It was right scary for a few minutes there, though, Mate, when we thought Hugo had swallowed them.”

“I can imagine. Thank God he’s okay.”

“I confess to praying,” Ron admitted. “Mum would be pleased.” He looked at them and suddenly, something in his face tightened keenly. “You’re looking a bit rumpled there, gents. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were enjoying a bit of snogging.” 

“Not your business there, Ronald.”

Chivalry wasn’t dead, Draco thought as Harry moved to block Draco from Weasley’s view, and Draco looked down at himself, tucking in his shirt tails. His erection was a thing of the past. He listened absently as Harry and Weasley went back and forth, leaning over to pull on his boots. He was still wearing the thick red and white socks Harry had spelled onto his feet, and they made his boots quite snug but Draco, for god only know what reason, didn’t want to remind him to change them back. He stood and went to the coat rack, taking his coat down and slipping his arms into the sleeves. When Granger appeared, and it didn’t seem the conversation was going to wind down any time soon, he looked up at Draco helplessly. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed. Draco shook his head with a slight smile, mouthing back ‘later’. He waved, then Apparated, the coordinates of his clinic in his mind. 

He’d been home fifteen minutes, having a shower and a desperately needed wank, then telling himself what an idiot he was when the sound of an owl pecking on his window sounded through the flat upstairs. He opened the owl post window, finding an unspectacular gray barn owl on the perch outside. It had an envelope attached to its leg, and Draco untied the festive green ribbon, feeding the little bird some treats and letting her go on her way. Closing the window against the nights chill, Draco padded barefoot across his bedroom floor to sit on the edge of the turned down bed, tucking his leg under him. He opened the envelope, pulling the card free. And he laughed.

The image showed a very well built young man dressed in nothing but several strings of Christmas lights, arms and legs positioned so that anything pertinent was hidden from view. He opened it, his smile lingering. 

_Draco, (see, I can do it. You should be able to do it, too.)_

_Shall we try again? I’d love to be able to take you to dinner, and I promise to send Kreacher out for the evening._

_Harry_

Draco grinned and went back to his desk, finding a quill. He trimmed it, found the color ink he wanted, and wrote his response on a piece of fine parchment.

_I’m all for it,_ he wrote, _as long as that’s your outfit for the evening._

_TBC_


	24. Merry Christmas Eve!

_He’d been home fifteen minutes, having a shower and a desperately needed wank, then telling himself what an idiot he was when the sound of an owl pecking on his window sounded through the flat upstairs. He opened the owl post window, finding an unspectacular gray barn owl on the perch outside. It had an envelope attached to its leg, and Draco untied the festive green ribbon, feeding the little bird some treats and letting her go on her way. Closing the window against the nights chill, Draco padded barefoot across his bedroom floor to sit on the edge of the turned down bed, tucking his leg under him. He opened the envelope, pulling the card free. And he laughed._

_The image showed a very well built young man dressed in nothing but several strings of Christmas lights, arms and legs positioned so that anything pertinent was hidden from view. He opened it, his smile lingering._

__Draco, (see, I can do it. You should be able to do it, too.)_ _

__Shall we try again? I’d love to be able to take you to dinner, and I promise to send Kreacher out for the evening._ _

__Harry_ _

_Draco grinned and went back to his desk, finding a quill. He trimmed it, found the color ink he wanted, and wrote his response on a piece of fine parchment._

__I’m all for it,_ he wrote, _as long as that’s your outfit for the evening.__

_____ _

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Harry wrote the note to Draco as soon as his floo call with Ron and Hermione ended, then opened a bottle of wine. He sat on the sofa, staring into the fire, going over the evening in his mind. He’d had a really good time, for the first time in a long time, and he felt hopeful that they might be at the beginning of something special, something important. There was no doubt about the fact that he wanted to get Draco Malfoy horizontal again as soon as possible, but he wanted more than that, too. More than simply finding him desirable, Harry _liked_ him, and wasn’t that a bit of a shocker. He liked him a lot and thought they just might be good together.

When Princess returned (Rose had named her and Harry hadn’t been able to disappoint her by changing the bird’s name), Harry opened Malfoy’s answer, his hands shaking a bit in anticipation. Draco hadn’t disappointed.

Harry read the simple response and felt heat rush over him even as he laughed. Ginny had bought the cards with the bloke draped in Christmas lights on them. She’d said she thought it would be a great laugh for him to send them out signed; Harry Potter, Chief Auror. He’d told her she was out of her fucking mind and hadn’t anticipated using any of them; until tonight. It had seemed perfect, but Draco had managed to one up him. 

His answer came back on a fine piece of heavy vellum. It was very simple; just a few words. _All I want for Christmas is you…naked._ Just reading the words made him hard, and he shifted, rearranging himself in his trousers. Now all he could think about was getting Draco naked, and he doubted he was going to be able to think of anything else unless he bled off some of the anticipation. Vanishing the cocoa mugs and wine glass to the kitchen downstairs, (Kreacher could deal with them, the little shit), he went upstairs, undressing and laying his clothes over the bench at the foot of his bed, then going in for a hot shower. It helped some with his expectation for the next night; the leisurely wank he enjoyed helped more.

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Draco dressed carefully the next evening. He didn’t know where Potter was going to be taking him, but he figured being well dressed was never a bad option. His cream cable knit jumper with the shawl collar snugged his slender torso and his black slacks accentuated his long legs and the muscles in his thighs. The boots with the slight heel only made him look longer, leaner. He carefully dried his hair, letting some of it fall over his forehead in artful disarray as if he’d been running his fingers through it. He grinned slyly at his reflection in the mirror; he hoped Potter would actually run his hands through his hair. For some reason, that really did it for him.

Once he was ready to go he found himself pacing, just waiting until he could Apparate to Potter’s front door. He was nervous and he kept wiping his hands on his thighs, taking and releasing deep breaths. Finally, when it was half six, he donned his black overcoat and draped a gray scarf around his neck, and Apparated to Number 12 Grimmauld Place. There was an evergreen wreath with a red velvet bow hanging on the door, something Draco hadn’t noticed the night before, and Christmas lights strung around the windows. It looked homey, just as the house was now homey, welcoming. He remembered the place from his childhood visits, and the last thing he’d have called it was ‘homey’. Potter had worked miracles on it. Draco knocked and Harry opened the door almost instantly, as if he’d just been standing on the other side, just waiting. 

He looked edible in a neat, fitted burgundy button down, dark gray jeans and tan loafers. His hair looked freshly washed, shining in the light over his door. He opened it wider with a bright smile, stepping back and letting Draco come into the foyer. Draco’s nerves were back, and he smiled anxiously.

Harry walked up close behind him, and Draco felt him brush his nose along his nape.

“Potter, are you sniffing me?”

“You smell good,” he answered, then pressed a kiss to the spot where his collar touched his skin. “Can I take your coat.”

“Oh, are we… staying in?”

“I’m going to cook for you.” He ran his hands over Draco’s shoulders then down his arms, and Draco felt a shiver run the length of his spine.

“Can you cook?” Draco asked breathlessly.

“Mm-hm.” 

Draco shrugged out of his coat, letting Harry take it and his scarf, hanging them on a coat rack inside the door. He turned just as Harry stepped back up to him. 

“So, you’re a man of hidden talents, are you?”

“Hm?” 

Harry’s eyes darkened as he took in the jumper and close fitting slacks, and he reached out, his hands coming to rest on Draco’s hips. 

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Draco said, letting himself be pulled in, close to Potter’s muscled body.

“I would say there’s any number of things you don’t know about me.” Potter angled his head, his eyes shifting from Draco’s mouth, to his eyes, then to his mouth again. Draco licked his lips in response, and Potter’s eyes darkened.

“I’m going to kiss you, now,” Potter said and instinctively Draco angled his head in counterpoint.

“I wish you would.” 

“Good to know.”

When Draco had got home the night before, he was almost convinced that the potency of Potter’s kisses was due entirely to the fact they were both half pissed. Standing there in Potter’s entry, completely sober, Draco knew he’d just been kidding himself. This man could disarm him utterly, just by kissing him. But then there was a hand gliding down over his hip before detouring between his legs, and Draco made a little startled sound in his throat when Potter palmed his cock with slow, thorough deliberation.

“Oh, God,” Draco groaned when Potter released his lips.

“No?” Potter’s hand stilled.

“Oh, don’t you fucking dare,” Draco growled, and Potter chuckled, his fingers finding the shape of Draco, mapping him through his trousers. He grunted softly when he found Draco half hard, and the longer he caressed him, the more boneless Draco felt. 

Startling him, Potter turned him and shoved him against the wall, holding him there with one hand while he unfastened his trousers with the other. Pealing back the fabric, he pushed both slacks and pants down over his sharp hipbones, freeing his prick. Potter’s hand went immediately to curl around him, and his palm was warm and slightly rough. Draco’s knees began to tremble. 

“Don’t _you_ dare fall,” Potter said against a rough kiss, and Draco didn’t understand until Potter slid gracefully to his knees. 

“Oh, my God,” Draco breathed, looking down to where Potter knelt at his feet. He couldn’t believe it; Harry Potter was kneeling in front of him, and it was enough to send blood into his half hard prick.

“Nice,” Potter said softly, pumping his hand up and down, letting his other drift back to cup Draco’s balls. “Very nice.” He nuzzled Draco’s cock and Draco sighed, spreading his legs a bit to allow greater access. Potter’s fingers skimmed back even further, seeking out the crease in his arse, and Draco closed his eyes on a sigh. They shot open again immediately when Potter took him in his mouth.

Draco stared down at the man at his feet. He thought that for as long as he lived, this would be the penultimate moment of his existence; the night Harry Potter knelt at his feet, his pink lips spread around the girth of Draco’s cock.

Draco had had his fair share of head in his life. He’d had his first blow at fifteen, curtesy of an upper classman whose name he no longer remembered. It had been sloppy and poorly done, and he’d come like a geyser. Potter was no novice, and there was absolutely nothing sloppy about his technique. He licked a circle around the head, pushing Draco’s foreskin back with his lips, sucking lightly. It was delicate and skilled, and then he took him clear to the back of his throat, and Draco’s knees buckled. Potter pushed his hand up beneath Draco’s jumper, spreading his fingers on his stomach, holding him pushed back against the wall.

“Don’t you dare fall.” Potter popped off of him for just a moment, then was back, licking a stripe down one side of Draco’s prick, then up the other. A shudder passed through Draco’s slender frame, like a young tree caught in a stiff breeze, when Potter sucked him down all the way again. 

“Gods,” Draco gasped, his hand resting on the top of Potter’s head, then spearing his long fingers through his shiny, soft curls. He was more than half hard now, his cock rising up from its nest of pale curls. Potter hummed happily, pulling off of Draco’s prick to rub his cheek against it, pressing his nose into those soft blond strands. 

“You even smell good here,” Potter murmured. Draco was so far gone he didn’t think he had a coherent answer in him. He continued to pet Potter’s head, his long fingers sliding down to caress the side of his face. When Potter went back down on him, and the head of Draco’s cock slid into his throat, the muscles rippling to squeeze him, he gasped. 

“I can’t take much more of that, Potter,” he said breathlessly. Potter’s hand slid around to squeeze one arse cheek, and he began to bob up and down, sucking hard. Draco’s toes curled in his shoes. “I mean it, Potter. I’m going to come all over your face.” Potter hummed, then slowly pulled off.

“I like the sound of that,” he said, his hand stroking him. “Next time.”

Draco let his head fall back on a sigh. “You’re so sure there’s going to me a next time?”

Potter stood as smoothly as he’d knelt. He wrapped his arm around Draco possessively and pulled him in, sliding his hand down to press two fingers between the cheeks of his arse. Draco’s sensitive cock pressed against the hard penis trapped by Potter’s jeans, and he looked into Potter’s face to find his eyes staring possessively into Draco’s. 

“I’m positive there’s going to be a next time,” he said, his voice a low growl. He found Draco’s opening and brushed his fingers over the hot, tightly furled skin. Draco had nowhere to go, and he whimpered. “And now, I’m going to take you upstairs and fuck you.”

The words sent a shaft of want from Draco’s head to his toes, and he stared into Potter’s face, the square jaw hard and his eyes intense. 

“Okay.”

TBC


	25. Chapter 25

_“Gods,” Draco gasped, his hand resting on the top of Potter’s head, then spearing his long fingers through his shiny, soft curls. He was more than half hard now, his cock rising up from its nest of pale curls. Potter hummed happily, pulling off of Draco’s prick to rub his cheek against it, pressing his nose into those soft blond strands._

_“You even smell good here,” Potter murmured. Draco was so far gone he didn’t think he had a coherent answer in him. He continued to pet Potter’s head, his long fingers sliding down to caress the side of his face. When Potter went back down on him, and the head of Draco’s cock slid into his throat, the muscles rippling to squeeze him, he gasped._

_“I can’t take much more of that, Potter,” he said breathlessly. Potter’s hand slid around to squeeze one arse cheek, and he began to bob up and down, sucking hard. Draco’s toes curled in his shoes. “I mean it, Potter. I’m going to come all over your face.” Potter hummed, then slowly pulled off._

_“I like the sound of that,” he said, his hand stroking him. “Next time.”_

_Draco let his head fall back on a sigh. “You’re so sure there’s going to me a next time?”_

_Potter stood as smoothly as he’d knelt. He wrapped his arm around Draco possessively and pulled him in, sliding his hand down to press two fingers between the cheeks of his arse. Draco’s sensitive cock pressed against the hard penis trapped by Potter’s jeans, and he looked into Potter’s face to find his eyes staring possessively into Draco’s._

_“I’m positive there’s going to be a next time,” he said, his voice a low growl. He found Draco’s opening and brushed his fingers over the hot, tightly furled skin. Draco had nowhere to go, and he whimpered. “And now, I’m going to take you upstairs and fuck you.”_

_The words sent a shaft of want from Draco’s head to his toes, and he stared into Potter’s face, the square jaw hard and his eyes intense._

_“Okay.”  
_

They stumbled up the stairs, kissing every few steps, clothes left dangling from the bannisters and puddled on the floor.

“What about that elf?” Draco gasped when Potter pushed him against the newel post on the second floor landing. Potter was sucking a mouthful of skin on Draco’s neck into what he was certain was a glorious love bite, and the sensation was raising as much gooseflesh along his spine as his bare shoulders were in the faintly chilly house.

Potter laughed raggedly. “If he doesn’t want to see my hairy bare arse, then he better stay in his cupboard.”

Draco grinned at him slyly. “Hairy, huh?”

Potter’s smile turned positively wicked. “Uhm, pretty sure the Healer who operated on my back is already aware I’ve fuzz on my bum.”

Draco felt his face heat. “It would be completely unethical for me to have checked out your… anatomy while you were unconscious.”

Harry threw back his head and laughed, and Draco admired the long line of his throat, the broad, square set of his shoulders.

“You expect me to believe you didn’t even look?” He wiggled his dark brows, green eyes shining.

“I didn’t.” Draco protested. “Other than in a purely academic capacity, of course. You know, the muscles of the lower back lead directly down to the gludious maximus, and…” He stopped, rolled his yes. “Oh, fuck it. Of course I checked out your arse, you wanker. And --,” he leaned against Harry’s bare chest, glorying in the feel of all of that bare skin, and the soft but faintly wiry chest hair, “ – it’s one fucking glorious arse, which you already knew.”

Potter’s hands slid down his back, grabbing Draco’s bum in his big hands and squeezing. “Speaking of glorious,” he murmured, lips going back to Draco’s throat, back to the spot that was already feeling sensitive, “I’m betting this is, too.”

“Well, it is, which you’d already know if you’d stop talking. Who knew you were so chatty!”

Harry laughed, grabbing Draco’s hands and pulling him up to the third floor.

“Be careful!” Draco ordered when Harry tripped slightly. “I do good work, but even I can’t be responsible if you fall on your back up the stairs.”

Harry grabbed him around the waist, herding him down the long hallway to his room. “Oh, trust me. I have plans for this back that doesn’t include falling on it.”

“Just don’t overdo,” Draco cautioned as Harry pulled him through the door in a large, tastefully decorated suite, stained glass lamps burning low in the corners.

Harry turned finally at the side of a wide four poster bed covered in dark blue and gray bedding, a pile of pillows in front of the large carved headboard. He slid his hands up Draco’s biceps, and Draco shivered. 

“I’m counting on my surgeon letting me know if I get carried away.”

Draco grinned, and Harry wrapped him in his arms, kissing him deeply.

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Draco was straining against his hand, and Harry knew he was getting more and more desperate. Casting wandlessly, (his wand was someplace between the sitting room and the bedroom, tied up in his jumper and button down shirt) he summoned oil from his bedside table and it slapped into his hand. 

“Show off,” Draco said breathlessly, looking up at him, a glorious sprawl of long pale limbs and full cock, pink lips swollen and silver gray eyes shining.

Harry grinned at him, uncorking the bottle of scented oil with his teeth. The smell of evergreen and peppermint filled the room, and Draco’s muscles went limp beneath his hand. When he spread the warm oil on his fingers and eased one of Draco’s ankles onto his shoulder, Draco returned his smile.

He was tight, and hot, and he caught his breath when Harry slid his index finger inside of him.

“Breathe, babe,” Harry murmured, leaning forward to kiss him gently. 

“It’s just… been a while.”

“For me, too.” Harry kissed his ear, then his jaw. “We’ll go slow together.”

“Not too slow.”

Harry laughed. “Ah, a bossy bottom.”

Draco gave him an wry look. “Only if the top goes unnaturally slowly.”

Harry leaned up to look down at him, pressing in a second finger. Draco gasped and laughed at the same time. 

“Gods, you’re an arse.”

“Right now I’m more concerned with your arse.” Harry twisted his fingers aned curled them, finding the spot that had Draco’s back arching, a soft cry coming from his lips. “Ah, there’s the spot.”

Draco wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him down on top of him. “You talk too much.”

“ _I_ talk too much?” Harry laughed, easing into place between Draco’s spread thighs. 

“Yes. STOP. TALKING.”

And pressing slowly into him, Harry stopped talking. For quite a while.

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

They had a long, gratifying, sleepless night, and the next morning they were in the shower, sated and sore and laughing as they soaped one another’s shoulders and backs.

“I would get you nice a slippery with this soap,” Draco said, teasing in his tired eyes, “but I don’t think my arse could handle any more.”

Harry leaned against the shower wall, his cock long and soft against his thigh. “That’s fine. I think this is about as far up as I’m going. I need sustenance and a nap. Now, _then_ …”

Draco grinned before he ducked his head under the spray. He came back out, shaking his hair and flicking drops of warm water across Harry’s chest. He just batted at him ineffectually.

“I can’t stay much longer,” he said regretfully. “I have a preliminary work up for a patient who’s having surgery in a few days. And I’ll need some sleep before that.”

“Ah, the trials of the great Healer.”

Draco smacked Harry’s chest. “Stow it, or great Chief Auror.” He ran his hands through his hair and Harry admired the way the muscles worked in his chest. “We’ve both got demanding jobs.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “So, we do.”

They stepped out into the steamy bathroom and Harry offered Draco a thick white towel. He took it with a slight smile, and began to towel off.

“I suppose it’s a bit early in this,” he gestured between them, “to ask you to go with me to the Burrow on Christmas.”

Draco paused, then slowly wrapped the towel around his waist, taking the one from Harry’s hands. Harry stood beneath his ministrations while Draco dried his chest, and back, and legs. His cock gave a tired wobble, but that seemed all it could manage. Finally, Draco inhaled deeply.

“It is a bit early.” He looked up into Harry’s eyes. “Can we see where this goes before we include the in-laws?”

Harry nodded, not really disappointed. 

Draco gave him a slight smile, looking at him from between his pale lashes. “Can you come to mine after?”

Harry wrapped his arms around him, just barely able to see them in the steamy mirror across the room. They were so different; light and dark, long limbed and sleek and bulkier with muscle, but he didn’t think it was too egotistical to find them beautiful. 

“I will gladly come to Hertfordshire.” He pressed his cheek against Draco’s, smiling at their reflections. “And I don’t do that for just anyone.”

“I know. I’m special.” He leaned into Harry, closing his eyes and resting his head on the broad shoulder.

“That you are,” Harry pressed his lips to Draco’s temple. “That you most assuredly are.”

__

_fin_

Happy Holidays one and all! Thank you so much for going on this journey with me, and look for an epilogue on New Year’s Eve!! 


	26. Chapter 26

Hi, all who are waiting on my Epilogue;

I finished it late, and it's currently in beta. Hopefully, it will be up about noon New Year's Day. Sorry for the delay!!


	27. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my much loved beta, Sassy_Cissa. I don't know what I'd do without you. I'd also like to thank everyone who left comments on this piece. Your generosity keeps me writing in fandom.

**So much for noon! Sorry about that!!**

_Eighteen months later …_

“I hate this fucking thing.”

“Stop fiddling with it.” Draco lightly smacked Harry’s hands away from where he tugged on the bottom of the waistcoat that was part of his formal Auror’s uniform. “And if you hate it so much, change it. You’re Chief Auror.”

“I’ve tried.” Harry turned to look at himself in the full length mirror on the back of their closet door. “The bloody Wizengamot says that they’re ‘historically important’, and we need to ‘honor out history’. I’m pretty sure the last time the design was changed, Queen Victoria was a teenager.” He studied the dark red double-breasted cut-away, the two rows of brass buttons shining in the soft lights of their bedroom. It did make him look lean and broad shouldered, he supposed. But the waistcoat liked to creep up under the coat, making him feel like it was trying to suffocate him, and he thought the ‘scrambled egg’ cording on the sleeves was over-kill. The cape that hung off of one shoulder, a thick gold cord across his chest holding it in place (along with one of Draco’s stronger sticking charms; without it, the damned thing slid down his arm and looked stupid) was old fashioned and heavy, and he felt like the snug black trousers and shiny knee high boots were just pretentious as hell. And speaking of pretentious – 

“Do I have to wear this?” He touched the Order of Merlin, First class that was pinned to his chest, his lip curling.

“You do,” Draco said, coming up beside him and straightening his own slender black tie. His charcoal wool suit with black velvet lapels made him look long and lean, his shining black dress shoes were immaculate, and the floor length cape hanging over his shoulders swung around him gracefully when he walked. He looked like Snape, only sexy. He’d let his hair grow longer, and it framed his lean face. He looked edible, and Harry wanted more than anything to toss him on the bed and forget the Ministry do, starting with his toes and working his way up. 

“Stop whining. And no, we cannot skip your best friend’s reception to fuck.”

Harry rolled his eyes. It was uncanny how Draco always seemed to know what he was thinking, but he was getting used to it. They’d been together for a year and a half, and their ability to know what the other was thinking was just one of the perks of their ‘magical compatibility’. Even if he was at work, Harry always knew how Draco’s surgeries went. Draco always knew when Harry was in the field, and how his cases were going. The two times he’d been sent to St Mungo’s with minor injuries, Draco beat him to the Emergency Room. Draco knew when Harry was headed home and if he wasn’t in surgery, walked out to the Hertfordshire Apparition point and met him. If Draco didn’t meet him, Harry always knew why. 

They’d experimented with combining their magic, casting healing spells for Draco’s patients. The ones who benefited from the spells healed almost twice as quickly as the others. They’d also tried it with tracking spells for the DMLE, and the success rate was pretty startling. Draco and Hermione were working together, writing a paper for a scholarly periodical about the phenomena, because there was so little actual information available. They’d decided not to use their real names, however; they had enough press without the fact that combined their magic was more powerful than Dumbledore’s. 

Harry had been a bit concerned at the beginning about how Ron, Hermione and Draco would get along, but he shouldn’t have worried. They’d all become close friends; Draco fit in better with the three of them than anyone ever had. It could be daunting, trying to become part of the _golden trio_ , (God, how Harry hated that title,) but for Draco, there was no awkwardness. They all had dinner together at least once a week, and watching Draco with Rose was fascinating. Harry hadn’t thought Draco would be particularly good with the kids, and Hugo seemed to make him uneasy, with his toddler talk and general messiness. But Rose? Draco and Rosie were like two old souls who had just found one another again. She fascinated him , and her intelligence delighted him. 

“She’s Granger, only short,” Draco said after one Saturday dinner. “No eight-year-old should be that bright. She’s going to give the profs at Hogwarts a run for their money. How both of those children could come from the same womb is beyond me.”

“Hey, I love Hugo,” Harry said.

“He’s a perfectly lovely child,” Draco said generously. “And of course you love him; he’s your intellectual equal.”

Harry had rolled his eyes. “You’re so funny,” he said dryly.

“You love my sense of humor,” Draco said, kissing him quickly before he went back to the clinic. Harry watched him go, thinking his partner had absolutely no idea how right he was. 

Initially, when they were first dating, Harry had stayed at Grimmauld and Draco in Hertfordshire. That had been okay for about two weeks. When it became obvious that Draco really needed to be close to the clinic and Harry could sleep about anywhere as long as they could connect the Floo network, Hertfordshire and the flat upstairs became home. Harry hadn’t decided what he was going to do with the house yet; at first he thought he should probably keep it in case anything went wrong but that concern only lasted about six months. Now he considered giving it to Teddy, with Andromeda in the guardianship role until he was twenty five. It was a good house now, the dark magic scrubbed away. It had a few idiosyncrasies but a lot of old houses did, and with Andromeda being a Black he felt like she could handle those. Honestly he felt she was more entitled to the place than he was to begin with. He also thought Sirius would be pleased with the idea of Remus’s son living there; now that he was older, he couldn’t help but wonder if there hadn’t been something between them, when they were young. It saddened him that there wasn’t anyone left alive to ask.

Draco took out his pocket watch and checked the time. “We’re going to be late.”

Harry sighed. “Then we need to go.” He still stood in front of the mirror, glaring at his uniform. “Merlin, I look ridiculous.”

Draco shifted until he was behind Harry, and he propped his chin on his broad shoulder. “I’m going to tell you something, but if you ever hold it against me I shall use a spell and glue your prick to your leg .”

Harry shuddered. “That sounds singularly unpleasant.”

“I’m sure it would be. So swear you will behave yourself.”

Harry held up three fingers, crossing his pinkie and his thumb across his palm. “I swear,” he said solemnly.

“All right. The fact of the matter is – I find this uniform extremely sexy. Every time you wear it, I spend the entire evening standing behind things to hide my erection.”

Harry gave him an incredulous look. “You’ve got to be kidding. That isn’t true.”

“No?” Draco grabbed his hand and pulled it back, turning it so he could place it over his dick. Harry was startled to find that he actually was half hard within the confines of his tailored slacks. “What do you call that?”

“That’s… a hard penis,” he answered, grinning. “One as familiar to me as my own.”

“All right then,” Draco said, flipping Harry’s cape so that the black sating lining lay smoothly over the red wool covering his shoulder, “while you’re wearing it, just imagine that I’m getting extremely aroused watching you all evening. And that when we get home, there’s an extremely good chance I’ll let you fuck my brains out.”

Harry blinked. “What if I want _you_ to fuck _my_ brains out?” he asked with faux solemnity. 

“Either way. As long as someone’s cock is going in someone’s arse, I’m good. Now, we must go.”

Harry sighed, but allowed himself to be pulled toward the stairs that led to the first floor. Draco had decreed there was no way he was using the Floo and then attending a formal gathering with soot on his suit, so they were taking the additional ten minutes necessary to walk to the Apparition point.

Rebecca was at the reception desk as they passed, and she whistled softly. “Look at the two of you,” she said, her eyes admiring. “You clean up very nicely.”

“Thank you.” Draco gave her an abbreviated bow. “I have my mobile – “ he dropped the silliness, “—should Mr Brennan turn south.” Mr Brennan had surgery that morning, and there had been complications that nearly made Draco cancel their evening. Harry didn’t wish the man ill, but still…

“He’s stable, nothing changed since you did your last rounds. But should anything develop, I’ll call you immediately.” 

“Good. We should be back by one.”

They headed toward the door, Rebecca giving Harry a jaunty salute as he passed. He flipped her two fingers, and she giggled.

They walked to the Apparition point, which was around the corner from the clinic, breath creating thick clouds of condensation around their heads. Harry reached for Draco’s hand; each of them was wearing leather gloves so they couldn’t feel the other’s skin, but Harry like the pressure of Draco’s long, bony fingers between his. Harry’s gloves were part of the uniform, the fine tooled leather a perfect match for the black wand holster strapped around his left thigh. Draco’s were charcoal, the match for the mixed wool of his suit. Plain leather wasn’t particularly warm, but Draco had infused both pair with warming spells, something Harry was grateful for. 

Hertfordshire was always several degrees colder than London, and now had six inches of snow where London’s streets were bare. They crunched through the thin layer of ice on the snow, not speaking, perfectly comfortable to merely be in one another’s company. When they arrived at the alley holding the Apparition point, there was no line; Hertfordshire wasn’t exactly a hot bed of people who worked at the Ministry. Harry walked into the alley, pulling Draco after him, and stood on the gold Ministry symbol inlaid in the cobbles. He slipped his arm around Draco’s waist, pulled him in snug against his chest, and Draco gave him a slow, sultry smile. Harry’s lips twitched, and they disappeared with a soft ‘pop’.

Harry had got much better at apparition; he no longer staggered on landing, or felt like he was going to sick up on his shoes, which was a good thing as there were dozens of people milling about the Ministry courtyard and still arriving at any one of a dozen Apparition points. Harry hated this part of coming to the Ministry, particularly for formal events. When it was for the work day, it wasn’t so bad. People still stared, but that was pretty much the story of his life. In spring and summer, the courtyard was pleasant, with fruit trees in huge planters and rose bushes in bloom around the edges. In winter, it was ordinarily just cold and wet, and overall miserable. For this particular evening formal event, there were fairy lights hovering over their heads and sparkling frost on the walls, and Harry would have to remember to tell Hermione how beautiful he thought it was. 

Harry felt Draco stiffen slightly at his side, and Harry looked around. They were the subject of dozens of interested gazes, and Harry straightened, squaring his shoulders and gripping Draco’s hand. The worst part was just ahead, and they exchanged resigned looks.

“Do not run,” Draco said under his breath. “Just – stroll. Pause for pictures once or twice, then enter the ballroom. But do. Not. Rush.” 

Harry grimaced. “I should’ve brought Dad’s cloak.”

“It wouldn’t cover us both, and if you think you’re leaving me to walk past those vultures by myself, you’re out of your mind.” 

There was a press area outside of the ballroom doors, and getting there meant walking past a phalanx of paparazzi and reporters. Harry hated it. His relationship with the press hadn’t improved since he’d become Chief, mostly because he resented every second he spent having to waste talking to them. He knew the wizarding public ‘had a right to know’, but he hated that stupid phrase almost as much as he hated Skeeter.

Speak of the devil, he thought. Rita and her usual photog, Ralphie, were stationed right outside of the huge ballroom doors. She was wearing a bright orange gown, her blonde hair up in an explosion of curls, her magenta cat’s eye glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

“Dear God,” Draco muttered, his smile not reaching his eyes as he paused for the photographers. The flash bulbs were blinding, and Harry knew he was going to be seeing the bloody dots for the next hour. “There’s a color that doesn’t occur in nature.”

“She’s a woman who doesn’t occur in nature.” Harry smirked. “Unless she’s a bug.”

Draco snickered.

“Draco, Chief Auror Potter, when are you going to give me an exclusive interview?” she called, her high voice floating over the others. 

“When hell freezes over,” Harry ground out, forcing a pleasant expression onto his face. 

“Be nice, love. Just keep walking, don’t slow down anywhere near her.”

“Come on, Harry,” Ralphie called out. “Give the boyfriend a kiss for our readers.”

Harry turned his face away. “I know what I’d like to give his readers,” he growled under his breath, and Draco bit his lip but pulled him along behind him. Once they were through the towering doors, they became invisible to the media and Draco slowed, laughing. 

“What’s so fucking hilarious?” Harry asked.

“You are.” Draco pressed a light kiss to his lips. “Now, let’s find the bar.”

“I do love you,” Harry sighed.

“Of course you do.”

__

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Before they could do anything, including get a drink, they had to go through the receiving line.

Hermione and Ron were at the head of the line, smiling and shaking hands; it was a very big deal, after all, for a woman to become Executive Assistant to the Minister for Magic, especially one who had just turned thirty. She was second only to Kingsley, now, in Ministry hierarchy. He stood to next her, resplendent in his purple Wizengamot robes, his bald head gleaming under the lights from hundreds of floating candles. Ron was wearing actual formal robes, in a flattering navy blue, and stood on the other side of his wife. Hermione looked lovely in a bronze silk gown with gold stitching and rhinestones around pointed sleeves and scattered along the décolletage and the hem. Her hair was up in a sleek French twist, and Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so lovely. He greeted Kingsley, then turned to embrace his friend.

“Aren’t you impressive,” she whispered against his cheek.

“I look like a ruddy circus ringmaster,” he muttered. “You, on the other hand, are gorgeous.”

Her cheeks colored flatteringly, and Harry moved on to Ron while Draco kissed her and held out her hands, studying her gown. “Well done, Madam Assistant Minister. You are a vision.”

She smiled, now very pink cheeked. “And you look like a model, which is terribly unfair to the rest of us.”

Harry smiled and turned to Ron as his partner fielded her compliments, his brow raised in silent question. Ron reached into his pocket and retrieved a small box, passing it to Harry while he shook his hand. 

Keeping a secret from Draco, given how in tune they were, was damned near impossible. Harry had tried for a week; he’d been using his occlumency, which he’d had to strengthen when he entered the Auror force, but he wasn’t sure how successful he’d been. He’d find out soon, he supposed – Draco hadn’t said anything, but he was a talented Legilimens and could usually suss out anything Harry was trying to keep secret. Christmas gifts, birthday gifts. He couldn’t hide anything. He’d asked Ron to hold this for him, and so far Draco hadn’t said anything, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t onto Harry. 

“Still planning to do this here, mate?” 

Harry took a deep breath, but nodded. “I think he’ll like the grand gesture, don’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Ron grinned at him, one ginger brow arching. “Sure he’ll say yes, are you?”

Harry felt the color drain from his face; he’d never considered the idea that Draco might say anything other than yes, but now that Ron mentioned it –

Ron grabbed his arm. “Gods, I’m joking. Don’t you dare pass out on me.”

Harry took a deep breath as Draco turned to him. “Harry,” he frowned in concern. “Are you ill?”

“Yes, Harry. Are you ill?” Ron was clearly fighting a smile, and Harry was tempted to smack him. 

“Harry?” Draco slipped his arm around Harry’s waist, holding him firmly. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’ve lost my mind,” he muttered. He turned and intercepted Draco’s concerned look. “I’m fine,” he said as steadily as he could, taking a deep breath. “I just need a shot of firewhiskey.”

“Oh, Harry, just do it,” Hermione encouraged him with a smile. 

He shook his head. “I don’t want to steal the spotlight from you, Hermione.”

She laughed. “You did that when you walked in the door. And do you honestly think you’re going to be able to enjoy anything until you’ve done it?”

Harry stared into her warm brown eyes, feeling the weight of Draco’s gaze on the side of his face. “It’s okay with you?”

“More than.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Are you kidding? I can’t wait.”

“Harry, what the bloody hell is going on?”

Draco looked nervous now, and they were starting to attract the attention of the people behind them in the receiving line. Ron looked around, and began to laugh. 

“You can’t hide, Harry Potter. Ever.”

Harry looked around, too, and saw the avid eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered, then took a deep breath. “Fine.” 

There really wasn’t anywhere in the huge square ballroom to hide except perhaps the loo, and he’d be damned if he was going to do that. Harry put the box Ron had given him into his trouser pocket. He pulled off his gloves and slipped them beneath the gold cord holding his cape, then took Draco’s hands, backing away from the crowd, taking the gloves from his beautiful long hands, one finger at a time. 

“I can’t imagine you haven’t already figured this out,” Harry said, his voice dropping in timbre until it even felt lower in his throat. “I haven’t been able to keep a secret from you in a year and a half.” Draco stared at him, his head cocked to one side in confusion, and Harry smile. “No? Well, Snape did a better job of occlumency lessons that he ever knew.” He stared into Draco’s wide eyes, took a deep breath. “If someone had told me when we were back at school that someday you would be the most important person in my life, I’d have told them they were mental.” He slipped Draco’s gloves into an inside pocket in his cape, then reached into his own pocket where he’d put the small box. “A year and a half ago, when you repaired my back, and we were still sniping at each other, I’d have still thought they were mental. And then this – astonishing thing happened. It’s amazing how things can change, isn’t it? The truth is, I can’t imagine living even a minute of the rest my life without you. I fell in love with you, and I still love you so much it takes my breath. That being said,” he dropped slowly to one knee, and Draco’s expression went from confused to wide eyed comprehension, “Draco Malfoy, will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?” He opened the box and held it out, and the platinum band caught and reflected the light of a thousand candles.

Draco stared at the ring for what felt like a very long time. Harry was starting to fear he’d made a serious error in judgement when Draco finally took an audible breath. He lifted his eyes to Harry’s face, and they were awash with tears.

“Yes,” he finally said, nodding quickly. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”

Applause broke out behind them, but they didn’t hear it. They’d find out later Hermione had started it. All Harry knew was that Draco had said yes. He smiled, so wide it made his cheeks ache, and he stood. He took Draco’s left hand and slid the ring onto his third finger, then pulled him into his arms, closing them around him tight. His heart swelled when he felt his fiancé trembling.

“I love you,” he said, holding Draco against him.

“I love you, too. I may kill you, but I love you.”

Harry laughed. “Kill me, why?”

Draco smacked him on the shoulder. “Because you’re going to force me to socialize with all of these people before I can take you home to bed!”

Harry smiled, raising his hand to cup Draco’s cheek before he leaned in and kissed him, long and slow. The catcalls and whistles that echoed in the large room were courtesy of George and Ginny and Ron, but they weren’t the only ones. 

“Are you sure we have to socialize?” Harry said against his ear when their lips separated. 

Draco laughed. “Yes, Chief Auror. I’m sure.” He kissed Harry again as people began to approach them to offer their congratulations. 

Ultimately, waiting until he could take his fiancé home to bed was a test of the Chief Auror’s patience. And patience had never been Harry’s long suit.


End file.
